The Song of the Hunt
by Fainmaca
Summary: Two Master Witchers of the School of the Cat embark on a dangerous hunt. Based on characters and events created in the Witcher School Larp, 2nd International Season.
1. Chapter 1

"Hè mo leannan

Hò mo leannan,

'si mo leannan an tè ùr

Hè mo leannan

Hò mo leannan,

'si mo leannan, Nighean Mhairi,

Falt na dearg is sùilean gorm!"

The light-hearted song, an old Skelligan love ditty, drifted through the trees, bouncing from trunk to trunk with lively exuberance. Under the sun-dappled branches, a lone figure sang the tune cheerfully, her boots marching a brisk pace on the rarely-travelled roadway. Thick but flexible leather armour adorned this figure, betraying her nature as anything but a simple traveller. Should that not have been enough of a clue to any onlookers, then the twin sword hilts visible over her left shoulder and the crossbow dangling from her belt soon betrayed her true nature- a huntress and a warrior. The shining silver medallion at her breast, a snarling Cat's head, revealed more about her, that she was a Witcheress, a member of the nigh-legendary guild of monster hunters. For those who would have known this, it was easy to understand the confidence with which she walked alone through the forest.

This Witcher, crowned with a cascade of long, fire-red hair and sporting a cheerful, bright-eyed smile uncommon among her peers in the guild, was far from her home, the ancient Witcher Keep of Kaer Marter. A student of the Path for some years now, she'd completed her training in the ways of the Witcher under the watchful eyes of older Masters, as well as the stern Grandmaster Treysse. Now, she roamed wherever she pleased, practising the trade that fate had chosen for her.

She continued down the trail, singing her merry tune.

"Hè mo leannan

Hò mo leannan,

'si mo leannan an-"

The cry reached her ears, faint at first, but growing in strength. A voice, screaming in terror and desperation. The Witcheress froze, feral yellow eyes glancing around cautiously. A gloved hand reached for the hilt of her steel sword.

It took only a few moments to spot the man, racing through the trees at full tilt, heedless of obstacles in his way. Branches and shrubs whipped at him, catching his tattered clothes in many places, adding countless small rips and tears of their own.

The Witcheress relaxed, although only a little. Even though it appeared as if nothing was chasing the screaming man, one could never be too sure. Still remaining aware, she moved to intercept the runner.

The man, still shouting in fear, appeared not to notice the young woman, even as he drew closer and closer to her. He kept looking back over his shoulder, eyes bulging in terror. It was in one such moment that he ploughed into the trunk of a fallen oak, tripping over it and tumbling into the dirt, stunned momentarily. As reluctant as she was to laugh at another's misfortune, the Witcheress found herself hard-pressed not to chuckle a little at the comical sight. Instead, she quickly leapt atop the fallen tree, lightly moving along its length until she drew near to the man, dropping into a crouch next to him. She flipped him over onto his back, brushing the dirt and dried leaves off his face. He soon regained consciousness, eyes opening slowly, then quickly, widening as he regarded the mutated huntress kneeling over him. A startled gurgle escaped his throat as he began to claw at the dirt underneath himself, pushing himself backwards.

"Hey- hey!" She tried to soothe, but had to snap a little to break through the haze of his panic. She raised a gloved hand, fingers tracing the rune of Axii as she spoke. "Calm it down, ok? I need you to take it easy, and breathe. What happened?"

A veil of calm fell upon the man, like a shroud draped over his facial expression. His body stilled as his breathing stabilised. After a few moments, he drew in a deep lung-full of air and expelled it carefully, all tension vanishing.

"Twas a beast, m'lady!" He exclaimed. "Out there, in the forest. 'E ran up 'n ate both me 'orses, 'ooves, bones, tack 'n everythin'! I tried to 'ide unner me wagon, but 'e jus' turned it over 'n started clawin' at me! Melitele be praised I were carryin' all that venison. Distracted the beast long enough for me to crawl away!"

"What kind of beast was it?" The Witcheress asked firmly, the suggestion of the Axii Sign still pressing on the man's mind.

"A dragon!" The man squawked hysterically. "All big 'n covered in scales, wi' wings as broad as a barn! An' those eyes, so wicked sharp and black..."

"Never heard of a dragon harassing a travelling wagon before..." She muttered. "They're normally too smart for that."

"'Tis the truth, m'lady!" He proclaimed.

She didn't reply for a moment, thinking it over. The man, startled, grubby from the mud, clothes all torn from his flight, seemed unharmed. It was strange for an intelligent beast such as a Dragon to attack a merchant and risk the resulting mobs of hunters scouring the countryside looking for them. Dragons instead normally kept as far away from people as they could, to live their lives unmolested. The Witcheress clicked her tongue thoughtfully. Something didn't add up, and she needed to know what it was. Her pulse began to quicken. A mystery! In an instant, her mind was made up.

"Is there a village nearby? A place you can go to be safe?"

"Th- the village of Boggevrieg be close, m'lady." The man stammered. "'Tis where I was headin', before..."

"Then go there, get some rest." The Witcheress ordered in a soothing, calm tone. "I'll deal with the beast for you. Tell the alderman what you saw, and have him ready my reward for when I return."

"You're going after it?" His question was incredulous as he looked the Witcheress up and down. "What could you possibly do against a creature like that?"

"You'd be surprised." Ylia winked as she stood up, brushing a few motes of dirt off her clothes. "I've picked up a few tricks in my time." She reached out, proffering her hand to the prone merchant. "Come on, up you get. Hurry on to the village, and tell everybody to stay within the borders until I return. It won't be safe for them to wander the forest with such a creature nearby."

With that, she turned to leave, but the man's voice stopped her mid-step.

"Wait! I don't know your name. Who will I tell the village you are?"

"Its Ylia. Of the Witchers of Kaer Marter." The huntress smiled back at him. "Now go. You've a village to warn, and the hunt calls to me!"

The man nodded silently before dashing away, soon vanishing in the direction he had indicated the village lay. The Witcheress, Ylia, meanwhile, turned to face the forest, feeling her pulse shift and jitter a little. A hungry, almost feral smile tugged at her lips as she began to move through the forest, barely making a sound even as she picked up speed. Finally, an adventure!


	2. Chapter 2

A wood pigeon cooed gently in the trees overhead, settling over her nest and protecting her eggs. Somewhere, not too far away, her mate answered. Below, the orange light of the afternoon slowly slipped across the forest floor, casting uncertain shadows here, there and everywhere.

Ylia moved cautiously but swiftly through the peaceful forest, so silent that even the pigeon was unaware of her passage. Her boots left barely a print in the soil as she passed, lithe limbs and swift muscles powering her forward more subtly than any natural predator. She vaulted over the rotting remains of a fallen elm, launching far into the air, catching herself on a branch and swinging forward, imparting an additional burst to her already impressive turn of speed.

She'd always thrilled at moments such as this, racing through the woodlands like a nature spirit, unseen and unheard. The Masters of Kaer Marter had always complemented her on her speed and co-ordination, a useful trait in their Cat-style training, the infamous 'whistling blade' sword techniques that made these Witchers so infamous. But, instead of using her speed for lethal combat, she valued it for times such as these, the wind whipping through her hair as she ran, truly free and alive.

As she ran, the Witcheress' senses stretched out around her. Sharpened hearing listened for every errant rustle, every creaking branch, every squeaking rodent hiding within the bole of a tree. Her sense of smell, so acute, could pick out every bloom around her, the musk of every animal that had passed this way in days, and even the sweet aroma of Cortinarius mushrooms growing inside the rotten hollow trunk of a yew tree some months dead thanks to an unfortunate lightning strike.

In just a few minutes, the Witcheress had reached a wide roadway carved through the forest, a more travelled highway than the trails she normally used. A wide break in the forest cut a straight line from north to south. On the far side, the trees resumed almost immediately, although the forest rapidly grew more and more dense. After a certain distant point, the trees, the undergrowth, even the air itself seemed to take on a more intense emerald hue. Moss crept across exposed bark and stone, while vines drooped down from low branches. It was almost like a wall of foliage designed to bar any passage.

Ylia had only ever seen the borders of the Brokilon once before, while also travelling this same road. There were many tales of the strange woodland, of how its Dryad denizens guarded it jealously, allowing none other than the Elves to cross into their territory. The common folk would say that the trees themselves followed the Dryads' commands, their tangled roots and grasping branches clawing and ripping at intruders, dragging them down into the loam to be suffocated and become food for the trees to grow ever older, taller and stronger. Ylia had heard all these tales, and more, and could only wonder at the flickering longing that burned deep in her chest. How she would love to walk beneath those trees, to see if the stories were really true! To even meet one of the mysterious and- so Ylia had been told- supernaturally beautiful Dryads, was an experience that the Witcheress would have given her all to have.

The Witcheress paused, regarding the looming forest with wide, curious eyes. She could even see the peaks of some distant mountains, rising far above the forest canopy. What must the view have been like, from up there? Temptation pulled at her strongly. All it would take was a short walk, a little time. A few days, at most. Or maybe more, if she really wanted to explore the region, learn its every secret...

No. She had a job to do. A hunt to complete. She reluctantly turned away, instead turning her gaze to the roadway. It didn't take her long to find the most recent set of tracks, two sets of hooves and four wide, wooden wheels. Careful not to step in the ruts in the road, Ylia followed the tracks until a slight dip in the road revealed a scene of carnage.

The wagon was there, upturned, its contents spilled out across the road. Barrels had shattered, spilling dried fish, salt and grain everywhere. Bolts of cloth had unfurled, rolling off the side of the road into the brush. One of the wheels had been torn loose, laying about five metres away from the wagon. Carefully, Ylia stepped around this, following her nose to the front of the wagon, where the metallic tang on the air was especially strong.

As much as her profession had exposed her to sights such as this, Ylia still had to take a moment to step back. The merchant hadn't been lying about the horses. Where the animals would normally have been hitched to the wagon, the leather tack ended in blood-stained stumps. Blood had spilled out onto the dirt of the road, still sticky and warm. Pools of the scarlet fluid formed around small patches of skin and tufts of hair, but no actual body parts remained. Whatever had attacked the wagon had either been voracious enough to devour two full-grown horses whole, then and there, or had been big enough to carry one or both of the animals away to its lair. Ylia couldn't say which was the worse prospect.

Steeling herself, the Witcheress moved closer to the gory scene, kneeling next to the blood to search for clues. She sniffed the air, trying to get past the odour of dead horse, looking for something, anything else that could give her an insight on her quarry. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, scanning every facet of the scene her nose described to her, delving deep...

There. Her eyes snapped open, darting around until she found the source of the subtle, acrid scent. A small pool of clear liquid, spilled on the dirt next to the blood. A long trough had been traced in the dirt, stroking its way across the surface of a shallow puddle of rapidly drying blood. The mark of a large tongue, lapping at the scarlet fluid. Next to it, droplets of the clear liquid had spattered in the dirt. Ylia removed her glove, reaching out to touch the liquid, testing the feel of it between her bare fingertips. Saliva, dropped from a large, drooling maw.

She carefully sniffed the spittle. Not caustic, or venomous. She tested a little on the tip of her tongue, spitting afterwards. No incendiary agents, either. So not a Dragon, for sure, not without the ability to spit fire. And with no acidic phlegm, or poisonous bite, that narrowed down her possibilities considerably. Options ran through her mind, but none she could pick with certainty. She needed more information.

A flicker of light caught her eye, something poking out from under the wagon. It was small, no larger than a gold Oren. Ylia shuffled over to it, picking it out of the dirt carefully. A scale, emerald green with a black sheen to it. As she turned it, the sun caught the edge, casting a rainbow of light where it scattered the sun's rays. So a Higher Draconid, for sure, with magic in its blood. She tested the scale, squeezing it between her fingers. It flexed considerably. Probably from a knuckle, or some other joint. She paused for a moment, marvelling at the beauty of the scale. she could only imagine at what the whole beast must look like, in its full splendour. Carefully, she slipped the scale into a pocket. Then, with a dainty grunt, she stood, glancing around.

It was not difficult to spot the beast's trail. Large footprints left deep impressions in the soil at the side of the road, where the Draconid had broken open several large crates. Ylia moved closer, smelling inside to confirm her thoughts. Venison, dried and cured. Beyond the shattered crates, more footprints, heavy, deep. At first, Ylia wondered why the winged beast did not simply take flight, but with a belly full of meat, and possibly two dead horses in its claws, it likely would have been unable to take to the air. that brought her a measure of confidence. It could only be so large, then. A full Dragon, or even a Dracolizard Matriarch, would have had no issue carrying away a whole team of horses, even less so with only two.

The Witcheress followed the wide, three-toed footprints, through the treeline and into the woods. Blood spatters here and there also aided her in following the trail, although the path of crushed foliage and snapped branches would have been easy for even an untrained farmhand to follow. Mentally, she calculated the beast's stride, looked overhead to see how high up the damage to the trees went.

The footprints paused at the base of a massive, thick tree, one that Ylia knew to be a Shaerrawedd Tree, a name given to it by the Elves. Long, deep scratches ran up its length, oozing sweet sap. Ylia reached out to catch some on her fingertips, tasting it and smiling. She recalled one of the cooks at Kaer Marter sometimes giving her and her friend, Rodrick, sticky yeast cakes made using this exact same sap, a treat normally forbidden to the adepts by the stern Grandmaster Treysse. The fond memories of her training, her home, and her dearest friend flooded back, filling her belly with a warm glow as she chanced another taste of the sap.

She looked up at the scratches again, observing how deep they went. Probably from a set of monstrous horns, rather than any claws. A territorial display? Or perhaps a way of maintaining the point of its horns. There were beasts she knew of that indulged in both forms of behaviour.

Ylia continued like this, following the beast at its pace, stopping wherever the footprints milled about for any time, analysing its behaviour through the clues left behind. At one point, she came across a pile of horse bones, regurgitated, the flesh stripped from them. She regarded the forlorn skull of one of the dead animals, a swell of sorrow in her breast. While she knew that such things were the way of the wild, a sad truth of nature, she still felt a twinge of regret upon seeing any kind and gentle creature meet such an end. The fear, the pain, the panic that must have swept through it before it met its fate. With a sad sigh, she moved on.

In just two short hours, the Witcheress found herself deep in the forest, the light of day slowly turning to orange dusk. Shadows were growing long, and many creatures were already settling down for the approaching night. Ylia reckoned she had about an hour or so of good daylight left. Still she pressed on. If she couldn't find the beast before dark, it wouldn't be the first time she'd hunted at night, and certainly not the first time she slept wild, curled up in the embrace of a large tree.

Just as the rising moon first peeked through the thickening leaves overhead, Ylia suddenly found herself confronted with something she had been both hoping for and fearing, at the same time. The border where Human lands gave way to the Brokilon. The beast's trail, previously merely stalking along the borderline, now turned sharply, heading deep into the Dryad lands. The Witcheress regarded the deeper forest carefully, noting the thick foliage, the ancient, gnarled trees, the moss that coated everything. For a second, she imagined herself standing before a gigantic portal into an entirely different world, one completely consumed by green.

Ylia hesitated here, momentarily and uncharacteristically unsure of herself. All the stories that had been told to her as a child, of little girls being snatched away by the Dryads and transformed into one of them, of the countless that had died after merely setting one foot inside their territory, all these tales and more assaulted her mind, warning her to be cautious. Once she stepped over the border, there would be no turning back. And yet... and yet, something deep inside of her wanted this. An adventure unlike any other. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her booted foot, and walked into Brokilon.

~o~0~o~

The air inside the deeper forest was heavy, muting all sound. Not a single bird, insect or small creature could be heard. It was almost as if a thick layer of wool coated everything. Even Ylia's footsteps made no sound, the thick moss that covered the forest floor absorbing every impact, no matter how careless she allowed her tread to be. Regardless, the Witcheress still moved with care, unsure whether any eyes watched her even now. It felt as though the entire forest was paying attention to her, the one element for leagues around that did not belong. The hairs on the back of her neck shivered at the thought.

The beast's trail was still obvious, much broken vegetation behind it, the occasional droplets of bloody spittle spattered across a fern here and there. Ylia knew she had to be close to wherever the creature's lair was. Surely it would not range so far for a single meal.

She paused at the edge of a clearing, glancing about cautiously. The seemingly empty forest was beginning to worry her. Surely by now she should have come across some sign of life, be it a Dryad, some wildlife, a monster, anything. The sunlight was all but gone now, the moonlight barely penetrating the thick canopy overhead. She'd need to rely on her other senses, or take a Cat potion, an elixir she despised, to continue the hunt. Her ears twitched in the gloom as her nostrils flared. Almost total silence greeted her. Almost.

At first, she thought she imagined it. The groan of straining wood. The rustle of leaves being moved aside. Ylia's eyes darted about, looking for the source of the noise. She dropped into a low crouch. Something was coming close. With a practised motion, she unclipped the crossbow from her belt, loading a bolt without even looking down. She pulled back the string, readying to fire at whatever it was that was coming after her. She listened, cautiously. Was that a growl she could hear? For just a second, she imagined a flash of bright eyes, somewhere in the dark.

She barely caught the movement at the edge of her vision. She spun, raising the crossbow even as she moved. Two bright, glowing eyes shone out from a bush on the far side of the clearing. On an instinct, Ylia fired, pulling the trigger of her weapon.

The Witcheress' heart pumped as she loosed the bolt, certain of her aim. The string went taught, beginning to launch the projectile as that single moment crystallised around the huntress. Her eyes watched the bolt leap from its cradle, beginning its journey to strike precisely between those luminous eyes that, just a moment too late, Ylia was horrified to realise belonged to none other than her friend and fellow Witcher, Rodrick.


	3. Chapter 3

The low whistling echoed through the glade, bouncing from tree to tree hollowly. Its source, the lone figure lying at the foot of a towering oak, was a tall, young man clad in thick armour. His dark hair was shorn closely to his scalp, while a scarlet scarf encircled his neck, pulled up over his chin and mouth. On the ground by his side lay two swords, one silver and one steel, while from his fingers dangled a silver chain, ending in a wickedly sharp hook. Carefully, the resting figure wound the chain around his elbow, then back around the palm of his hand, until it was neatly coiled, ready for use. Once done, he laid the chain down on a patch of moss close by. While not normally a tool this man liked to use, the silver chain had its value in certain cases, and he always believed in being prepared for any eventuality. This done, the figure lay back, folding both hands behind his head and staring straight up, through the tree's branches at the pale blue sky above.

It had been three weeks since Rodrick had left his family's lands, only a few coins to his name, his blades still slick with the blood of the few monsters that had infested the area since his last time in Kovir. Even as he left his family's homeland and ventured forth, his heart felt a little lighter. He was finally back to doing what he found most stimulating- travelling and learning. In just a few more days, he would be at Kaer Tiele, one of the Temerian Witcher Keeps. There, he could continue his studies, learning of the unique fauna that inhabited that portion of the continent. He'd even heard tell of a Striga trapped in their dungeons. He could learn much from a visit to the crumbling castle, after which perhaps he would return to Kaer Marter.

Shifting a little, the Witcher reached up to his breast, touching at the snarling cat's head that rested there, its green eyes glistening. It had been a while since he'd seen the ancient Elven palace. What might have changed in his time away, he pondered. Had Spark returned from the Path in his absence?

The idle thought caused a small smile to pull at the corner of his mouth, a rare enough sight on the normally serious Witcher's features. It had been some years since his oldest friend had left the Cat School Keep, looking to explore her trade by exploring the world. Rodrick, meanwhile, had chosen to stay a while longer, to further his studies in the libraries of the castle, and to teach those adepts who followed.

So absorbed was he in his reverie, the Witcher was caught by surprise when a loud, rustling boom echoed across the glade. Something struck a tree nearby, sending ripples through the leafy canopy. A deep, throaty squawk tore through the air as, close by, a massive beast moved. Rodrick looked towards the source of the noise, grabbing his blades as he leapt to his feet. The Witcher's eyes narrowed, but he could perceive nothing through the thick foliage, dozens of wide tree trunks blocking his view. Slinging his swords across his back, the Witcher gathered the remains of his belongings, and started off in the direction of the commotion.

The monster hunter darted between the trees, hoping to catch whatever had been making the racket. In moments, he reached the original location of the noise, only to find a shattered tree. Thick boughs had been shattered as something immensely heavy collided with the tree, tumbling towards the ground and ripping at branches as it fell. Long claw marks trailed down the length of the trunk, signs of the beast trying to arrest its fall. Rodrick leapt over the remains of a fallen bough as thick around as his waist. His feral eyes quickly scanned the area.

The site of the creature's impact on the ground was plain to see, several crushed bushes and a mass of churned dirt marking where the beast had squirmed as it tried to right itself. Rodrick knelt in the dirt, picking out a few discarded scales. He tested one between his fingers, flexing it, then biting down on it with his teeth to assess its hardness. Probably a belly scale from some kind of large Draconid, still warm from the creature's body heat.

There was no sign of blood, so the Witcher could only conclude that the creature was, at least outwardly, unharmed. Internal injuries from the impact were a possibility, although it still seemed to have risen and moved out of the area quickly enough. Rodrick looked to the trail of broken foliage and disturbed soil. Whatever it was, this beast was keen to be out of the area swiftly.

Close to the edge of the impact site, a small pile of something indescribable sat, steaming warmly. Rodrick could instantly smell the aroma of digestive acids, mixed with rancid meat. The Witcher approached carefully, eyeing the pile. Taking a closer look, he was able to discern a few purple bulbs in the mass. Picking one up, he squeezed it carefully, popping it. As a few drips of juice dribbled across his fingers, the Witcher nodded knowingly. Nostrix berries. The beast must have accidentally consumed them with its last meal, perhaps in the gut of it's prey. For a Draconid, this was a problem, as Nostrix plants tended to have a soporific effect on the large reptiles, inducing drowsiness, confusion, and at times even rendering the large beasts unconscious. The creature, under the effects of the berries, had lost co-ordination, and struck the tree, falling to the ground. It looked like it was trying to vomit the berries up, along with a large part of its last meal.

Many thoughts went through the Witcher's mind. Evaluations of size, strength, and his own supplies of potions and oils. All signs indicated a large Draconid, possibly even a Greater variant, and one capable of flight, if its collision with the tree was any indication. Rodrick was ill-equipped for such a hunt, barely having scrounged together enough materials for a simple Swallow potion, much less the other materials he'd have used for taking on a large foe like this. He wasn't being paid, and even if he had taken on a contract, there were no villages or towns nearby that were large enough to muster an adequate reward. The only place he knew of was a small village, Boggevrieg, some three leagues north. Those farmers and woodcutters would never be able to raise the coin to pay for the death of a Draconid.

And yet... And yet, the Cat School Witcher couldn't help but be intrigued. He'd never seen a Draconid this far from the coast before. Koviri creatures normally made their nests on cliffsides, hunting fish at sea as much as they terrorised men on the land. This was a chance for him to study something new, to expand his knowledge and expertise. His inquisitive mind prodded at him. With a little grunt, the Witcher adjusted the straps holding his swords, then tilted his head from side to side, clicking his neck.

Somewhere close by, a lumbering black shape rose into the air once more, its wings beating powerfully. Against the bright sky and the shining sun, Rodrick could only make out its silhouette, the broad wings, the horned head, the clawed feet. Whatever it was, it was certainly as large as he'd predicted. It flapped its wings unsteadily, then swooped off to the West, deeper into the forest. A low roar ripped loose from its throat, echoing back to the Witcher, seemingly challenging him. Rodrick felt a grim smirk twitch at his lips. The hunt called to him.


	4. Chapter 4

Night had fallen some time ago, with Rodrick still relentlessly pursuing his quarry. The Witcher moved swiftly, but cautiously, every step considered. His keen eyes surveyed every aspect of the beast's trail. When it walked upon the ground, pushing through dense brush and broad tree trunks, it moved clumsily, as though nursing an injury, leaving a very obvious trail to follow. When it took to the air, the Witcher found his abilities challenged, few signs remaining to help him keep after it. But, through a combination of sharp eyes and even sharper nostrils, the hunter managed to keep on track, spotting a discarded scale here, detecting the musty aroma of the reptile's spoor there, occasionally finding the carcass of some wretched creature that had found itself in the beast's path.

The creature's periods in the air were growing shorter, the Witcher noted. Whatever injury was bothering it, the effects were clearly becoming worse. Rodrick began pondering just how bad the impact with the tree might have been. Perhaps the beast was even bleeding internally. Whatever the circumstances, and earthbound beast would be far easier to hunt.

The forest was becoming more dense. Vines hung down from the branches overhead, while thick moss carpeted rocks and smothered tree trunks. The air itself was becoming thicker, heavier, like a dense velvet covered everything. As it did so, the Witcher noted a heaviness seeping into his muscles, his eyelids beginning to droop. It had been a long day, granted, but even so the hunter should not have been tiring quite so. His mind wearily processed the scene around himself, reacting much more slowly to stimuli than he was used to. Something wasn't right, he gradually realised.

Rodrick paused, stilling himself. He glanced about in the darkened glade. A few glimmers of moonlight slipped through the canopy, white shafts of light that danced through the forest, wisp-like. Focusing for a moment, the Witcher noted something in the light. He lifted his hand, reaching out into the air. Tiny motes of something like dust drifted through the air. He held his hand up to the moonlight, noting the silvery sparkles. Narrowing his eyes, he looked closely. Spores. He glanced up, noting where small clusters of mushrooms spread out from the damp recesses where branch met trunk, from broad cracks in bark, and from the sides of large boulders. The fungi glowed faintly, glistening whenever the moonlight touched it, almost seeming to swell to meet the silver light.

The Witcher reached a conclusion. The spores of these mushrooms, whatever variant they were, had to be what was causing his drowsiness, and the mild confusion tugging at his mind. He reached up to his scarf, pulling it up to cover his mouth and nose, tightening the knot at the back of his head. This done, he drew a small dagger from his belt, kneeling to cut into one of these growths. A few samples, for study. Once he got to Kaer Tiele, he would-

The whistling of the arrow barely betrayed its existence before the sharpened shaft buried itself in the bark of the tree, a hair's breadth from the Witcher's hand. Before the arrow had even finished quivering, the Witcher was back on his feet, spinning around with dagger bared, reaching for one of his swords. Feral eyes scanned the glade, while sharp ears twitched.

"Cease your movement, Vatt'ghern!" A shrill but commanding voice echoed between the trees. "The next one will strike you between the eyes."

Rodrick froze, suddenly aware of movement on all sides. Two figures rose from the brush to his left, while another emerged from some bushes to his right. Directly in front of him, a fourth figure seemed to materialise from thin air, her form becoming distinct from the foliage around her as she moved. All four carried longbows, arrows already nocked, strings taut as they took aim at the Witcher. Carefully, he raised his hands in a gesture of non-aggression.

He carefully looked around at the four attackers. He'd never seen a Dryad before, but he knew the tales. Skin of varying shades of green. Hair a mixture of green, autumnal orange and tawny brown, woven into thick dreadlocks. Ears pointed like an Elf's. Elegant, slender frames adorned by- Rodrick was quickly becoming aware- not much clothing at all.

The leader of the quartet, the one directly in front of the Witcher, stepped forward, a stern expression gracing her hard-edged features. She nodded to her compatriots, who lowered their bows and moved in closer, taking the Witcher's weapons. Rodrick stood stock-still, enduring the Dryads' questing hands in silence. Once the three women had stepped back, he spoke up.

"I meant no harm. I didn't even know I was so close to the Brok-"

"Silence." The leader, who wore a necklace with what Rodrick recognised as ancient runes inscribed on it.

"But I-"

"Fauve! Curroè allein!" The leader barked an order to one of her sisters.

Before Rodrick could utter another word, something hit the back of his skull. Sharp pain and stars blossomed inside his head, before unconsciousness took him.

~o~0~o~

By the time Rodrick regained consciousness, the sun was high in the sky. Pain coursed through his skull, and he was sure he could feel a bump on the back of his head from whatever had knocked him out. He was lying at the foot of a tree, his hands bound behind his back by some thick, tough vines. He pulled against them for a moment, but even his enhanced strength couldn't break the bindings. Carefully, he opened his eyes.

They were still in the glade where he had encountered the Dryads. The four Dryads were sitting across from him. It seemed as though they were taking turns in watching him, the one he'd identified as their leader currently sitting with her bow across her lap, two sharp arrows driven into the dirt next to her, within easy reach. The four forest nymphs were talking together in what Rodrick soon gathered was the Elder Speech. They kept their voices low, but he managed to pick up a few scraps.

"Should report back to Duèn Canell-"

"All Vatt'ghern are sterile, so its not even like he'd be of use as breeding stock..."

"...he will end up leading more of the dh'oinne into our lands..."

"...just kill him and be done with the matter..."

"If I may..." Rodrick interjected firmly, matching their language with ease, thankful for his studies in the libraries of Kaer Marter.

Such was their surprise at the Witcher speaking in their tongue, the Dryads momentarily didn't respond, giving him an opening. He pressed on.

"I was on the trail of a large beast, a Draconid of some kind. I apologise deeply for trespassing on your lands, but I am only here to help deal with creatures such as these. A creature of this size and aggression would pose a threat, even to Dryads. If you let me go, I can deal with the creature, then leave your lands right away."

"All beasts within the Brokilon are protected by our hand." The lead Dryad growled, her bow now in her hands, arrow nocked and ready. "We have no need of a Vatt'ghern."

"But this beast is not remaining inside of the Brokilon." Rodrick pointed out. "It has ventured out into Human lands. Its only a matter of time before it attacks a trade route, or a village."

"Why should we care for the fate of any of the dh'oinne?" Another Dryad, this one with auburn hair and wide, hazel eyes, spoke with venom.

"Because, if the beast continues to be a threat, then the 'dh'oinne' will decide to do something about it themselves." Rodrick explained. "Hunters, trained hounds, a battue... do you really want to see that arrive on your borders?"

"If they dare cross into our lands, they will die." The leader still had not lowered her bow, the sharpened point of the arrow aimed at Rodrick's heart.

"And then soldiers will come." The Witcher struggled to remain patient. "More every day. Please, I do not wish to see any sort of conflict with your people. Allow me to deal with the beast, discover why it has changed its hunting behaviours."

The Dryads were silent for a long moment. The leader twitched her head, ushering one of her sisters closer. A quick whispered exchange passed between them, before the younger Dryad nodded, then darted away. Finally, the bowstring relaxed, the weapon turning to the ground. When the older Dryad spoke this time, it was in the common tongue.

"Very well, Witcher. We will allow you to investigate." She raised a cautioning finger, pointing to the mushrooms the Witcher had been about to harvest. "However, any more attempts to harm the plants and trees of the Brokilon will not be tolerated. You will also not be allowed to travel anywhere alone. Fauve!"

The fourth of the Dryads, seemingly the most fresh-faced of the quartet, twitched at the mention of her name. She stepped closer, emerald green eyes darting from the Witcher to the older Dryad. A shock of hair, a mixture of verdant green strands and auburn, the colour of fading leaves in Autumn, cascaded over her shoulders. A short skirt of stitched leaves adorned her hips, while a dagger with a blade of sharpened crystal was strapped to her thigh.. She glanced at her elder warily. The older Dryad switched back to the Elder Speech.

"You will accompany the Vatt'ghern. Ensure that he does not stray from the beast's trail, and takes nothing with him from our home. Once the truth of the matter has been uncovered, make sure he leaves our lands."

The young Dryad opened her mouth to protest, but was silenced by a sharp stare from the other. Quietly, she nodded agreement. The older Dryad nodded approval.

"Good. We return to Duèn Canell, to give tidings to our Queen. Meet us there once the matter is resolved."

With this decided, the other Dryads turned and left, swiftly sprinting away into the green. In seconds, they had vanished, even to Rodrick's sharp eyes, leaving him alone with the young forest creature. An awkward silence passed between them for a long moment, before the Dryad grew close, slicing through the vines that held his hands.

"So..." He said as he rubbed at his wrists, trying to get the blood flowing to his fingers again. "What do I call you?"

"I was named Fauve at my birth." She answered curtly. "Gather your belongings, Vatt'ghern. We must move quickly. You were unconscious for quite some time, so the beast has a considerable lead on us."

"Did any of your people see it?" Rodrick asked, retrieving his swords from where the Dryads had placed them.

"No, only the damage it left behind. As much as Maevenn would hate to admit it, you were right. Something is wrong with this beast. It does not behave naturally."

The Witcher finished donning his gear, and the Dryad took off at a sprint, leading him deeper into the emerald woods.

~o~0~o~

A full day had passed since Rodrick had first run into the Dryads. He and his escort, the olive-skinned Fauve, had exchanged little in the way of actual conversation, in spite of his efforts. The Dryad seemed fixated on the beast's trail, at times picking out hints and clues that even the seasoned monster hunter had missed.

Rodrick had lost all sense of direction in the deep woods, now utterly unaware of how he might find his way out on his own. He realised that he was entirely reliant on his reticent guide, a situation he was not comfortable with, but had no option but to accept.

All of a sudden, as the sun set and a bright moon showed its first light through the leaves above, Fauve halted, raising a cautioning fist. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the bole of the nearest tree.

"Strange..." She murmured.

Rodrick moved up next to her, surveying the trail himself. In moments, his sharp sight picked up the clues his companion had spotted.

"Looks like the beast passed through here several times. We must be close to its lair, if it travels this path regularly."

"Look at these claw marks." Fauve pointed. "Fresh today, some going East, then returning. It has been out to hunt again today, while we followed it." She knelt next to a dark red mark in the dirt, touching it with her fingertips, then smelling it. "Similar to a deer's, but different."

"Probably a horse." Rodrick knelt next to her, inspecting the droplets himself. "If that's the case, its likely the beast ventured into Human lands again."

"Why travel so far on foot?"

"If its hurt, then it won't be able to hunt like it normally would." Rodrick theorised. "Needs easier prey, like horses hitched to a heavy wagon, or cows, slow and fat in their fields. Or people, slow, stupid and easily scared."

"Then we need to find it, sooner rather than later." Fauve resolved. "I have no wish for the dh'oinne to come here with their torches."

"We're close, I can sense it." Rodrick replied. "We just need to-"

The Witcher stopped mid-sentence, attention captured by a small imprint in the dirt.

"What is it?" Fauve asked, brows furrowing.

"We're not the only ones on the beast's trail."

Rodrick pointed to a deep impression left in the dirt by the creature's large, three-toed feet. There, in its centre, a smaller impression could be seen. It was faint, as though the owner was exceptionally light upon their feet, but the outline was clear. No bare-footed Dryad, but the outline of a small boot.

"From what I've seen of your people so far, you do not wear boots, do you?"

"No, we have no need of such things." The Dryad indicated her own bare feet.

"Human, judging by the size." Rodrick observed, kneeling for a closer look. "Possibly a younger man, or maybe even a woman. Very light of step. They know how to move in a forest without leaving much of a trail."

"We need to hurry." Fauve's voice was tense.

"Aye." Rodrick agreed. "Before one of your sisters finds them and puts an arrow through their eye socket?"

Fauve did not respond, instead bursting into a swift sprint down the beast's trail. Rodrick, with a sigh, ran to catch up.

A few minutes passed, the woods darkening around them as they ran. Before long, they came across a clearing. Rodrick was the first to arrive, bursting through the ring of bushes that surrounded the dark glade. Just a moment too late, he spotted the slight figure on the opposite side of the clearing, her crossbow already raised. In the half-instant after he entered the clearing, the Witcher heard a click, a twang, and saw the crossbow bolt leap from the figure's weapon, aimed straight at his head.


	5. Chapter 5

Time crystallised around Ylia. The crossbow's bolt leapt from the weapon's flight groove, taking to the air with deadly grace. Beyond the bolt's point, Rodrick, her friend, her brother, eyes only just beginning to widen as he realised his peril, far too late.

Fire sparked within her, a jolt of urgency. Without even thinking, her free hand was already moving, the lightning-fast reflexes of a Witcher driving her as panic surged in her mind. For less time than it took to blink, the wild thought that she could catch the fleeing bolt rose unbidden in her mind. Her clutching fingers reached out, grasping desperately at the bolt, but even with her enhanced reflexes, she was just too slow. The fletching of the bolt sliced at her fingers, the trimmed feathers cutting her fingertips. As she reached out, she felt a surge of power rise in her, a shudder of magical energy brought into focus by her urgent wave of emotion. Without her even thinking the proper commands, a very faint rune of Aard glowed around her fingers, and a burst of moving air leapt from her outstretched hand, driven by pure instinct and panic.

The bolt wobbled in the air, still leaping forth with deadly speed. It quickly crossed the clearing, finishing its journey before he could draw breath. The young man froze in place for just a moment, uncertain if he was still alive, or if the bolt had struck home. A warm trickle down his neck prompted him to reach up to his ear, finding a few drops of blood there. He glanced back over his shoulder to see the bolt quivering in a nearby tree trunk. He glanced back to his attacker, quickly recognising the deep, gem-like eyes, the flowing red hair, the soft features.

"Spark?" He asked incredulously.

The Witcheress' hand, still holding the spent crossbow, shook violently. Behind it, her eyes widened, her breathing quick.

"Rodrick!" She finally managed, before the crossbow dropped from suddenly loose fingers. She took a hurried step towards her friend. "What are you-?"

An arrow whistled through the glade, burying itself in the soil a hair of an inch in front of Ylia's rising foot, stopping her midstep. With a loud rustle, Fauve emerged from the edge of the clearing, another arrow already on her taut bowstring, this time aimed directly at Ylia's core.

"No, wait, stop!" Rodrick raised his arms, rushing to step between the two women.

"She has attacked you!" Fauve kept her bow raised, glowering at the new threat.

"She didn't know it was me!" The Witcher kept his hands raised. "Ylia is a very good friend of mine, another Witcher."

"A friend?" The Dryad asked warily. "So you deceived us, you weren't travelling alone!"

The tip of the arrow shifted to Rodrick.

"No, no no no!" He quickly replied. "I had no idea she was here, I give you my word!" The Witcher paused, taking a deep breath. "Fauve, please, you need to believe me."

"I do not 'need' to do anything, except protect my home!" The Dryad hissed. "She must leave, now, before my sisters learn of her presence, or both your lives will be forfeit."

"I'm not going anywhere." Ylia interjected with a heated tone.

"I'm not giving you a choice, Vatt'ghern!" The Dryad barked back, arrow point rising again.

"Hey, hey- hey!" Rodrick interrupted the pair with a snap. "Let's try not to kill one another here, ok? I don't know if you've forgotten, but we do have a bigger Zeugl to grill here." He gestured at the tracks under his feet. "Just... give me a chance to speak with Ylia, okay?"

Silence hung in the air between the trio for a long, long moment. Finally, with an irritated twitch of her lips, Fauve lowered her weapon, and the two Witchers relaxed.

"Very well, Vatt'ghern. Talk with your 'friend'. I will scout the trail ahead, then return. But I warn you, any further sign of duplicity, and there will be no further warning shots."

This said, the Dryad turned to stalk away, following the tracks a little further. As he felt the tension leave his shoulders, Rodrick turned back to his friend. Ylia gazed curiously after the green-skinned woman for a long moment, then snapped out of her thoughts, turning to look at her old friend once more. A soft light entered her eyes as she turned to Rodrick, instantly leaping at him to wrap him in a tight embrace.

"Rodrick." She breathed as she buried her face in the taller Witcher's chest. "Gods, its so good to see you!" She pulled back from the embrace, pausing for just a moment to spot the bloody prints that her fingers had left on his armour, before her eyes flickered to the crossbow bolt, still embedded in the tree behind him. "Oh, gods, I'm so sorry...!"

"Hey, don't worry about it." He soothed, patting her shoulder. "I'm ok, no harm done."

"But, the lights, the sounds..." Ylia blinked slowly, as if fighting off some extreme drowsiness. "I heard a growl and... and your eyes..."

"There's something in the air here." Rodrick explained, producing a phial from his belt. "Here, White Honey potion. Should negate the effects, for a while. Take it in small doses, over time."

While the Witcheress drunk the elixir, shuddering at its tangy, sweet taste, Rodrick turned to look at the bolt. He let out a low, impressed whistle.

"Damn, Spark! You were always the fastest of us, but trying to catch a flying bolt like that?"

"Clearly not fast enough." The Witcheress looked down at her cut fingers, the flow of blood slowed almost to a halt.

"Bullshit." Rodrick dismissed her negativity. "I can't think of any other Witcher who could even hope to touch a bolt in flight, let alone nudge it enough to make it miss its target. And was that an Aard I saw you cast at the same time?"

"I panicked." Ylia admitted, looking down to her feet.

"An instinctive cast." Rodrick nodded. "Weaker, but faster, I guess. Signs never were your strong point, huh?"

Ylia remained silent, and Rodrick turned to face her again.

"I'm glad to see you, Spark. Really, I am. But what are you doing here? These Dryads... they don't like outsiders."

"I was following the trail, just like you are." Ylia answered. "Whatever this creature is, its started attacking Humans, out on the road. It won't be long before the Humans decide to take action, unless we stop the attacks."

"I know, but listen, Fauve will not allow-"

"I know what you're going to say, Rodrick, and its not happening." Ylia folded her arms. "There's no way I'm letting you take this hunt alone."

"As the senior Witcher here-"

"Senior Witcher?" Ylia chuckled. "You went through the Trial of Grasses right next to me, Nekker-brain!"

"I passed them five minutes ahead of you, though."

"And then I kicked your ass in the physical assessment." Ylia planted her balled fists on her hips, tilting her head sardonically to the side. "You know this is only gonna go one way, right?"

"I never could tell you what to do." Rodrick smirked, then sighed. "Fine, let's find Fauve. I'm not sure how we will convince her to let you stay, though."

"I'm sure I can persuade her." Ylia grinned.

The pair turned, stepping back onto the trail of the beast.

"So... what do you think it is?" Rodrick asked as they strode over a fallen log.

"Two legs, wingspan of maybe five metres, no venom in its bite, no flame, horned crest..." Ylia paused as she worked her way through a thick bush. "I'm thinking a Wyvern. Maybe even a Royal one, judging by the size."

"There hasn't been a Royal Wyvern in these parts in over ten years." Rodrick dismissed. "Nah, this is something else entirely." He gestured down to one of the large footprints. "Look at the curve of that primary claw. Bigger than the rest. I'm willing to bet twenty Orens this is some kind of Ornithodrake."

"An Ornithodrake?" Ylia asked, mind filling with images from the tomes she had been encouraged to study in Kaer Marter's library. "This far from the mountains, and without any feathers?"

"I've read of some rare scaled variants. Hybrids, mixed genetics from Forktails or Slyzards."

"Alright then, 'Master' Rodrick." Ylia jibed. "I'll take that bet. Twenty Orens says I'm right, and we have a Royal Wyvern, versus your 'scaled Ornithodrake'."

Rodrick only chuckled in reply, shaking his head.

In moments, they found Fauve, moving swiftly back towards them, a troubled expression on her brow. She glanced to both Witchers, but surprisingly said nothing about Ylia's presence. Instead, she gestured for them to follow her.

"The nest is not far up ahead. Come, quickly. You need to see this."

The Dryad's serious tone gave both Witchers pause, before they swiftly followed her, racing up a small ridge. As they crested the rise, both hunters stopped, momentarily speechless. Finally, it was Rodrick who spoke up.

"Well, I certainly wasn't expecting that..."


	6. Chapter 6

The two Witchers, accompanied by the Dryad, crouched low to the ground, scuttling down the slope cautiously. Above them, the forest slowly brightened as dawn broke. Fauve led the way, her nimble steps more graceful even than Ylia's agile gait.

At the base of the slope, a large mound of loose soil had been scraped together, something of a shallow depression in its peak. A motley assortment of branches, twigs, bushes, even a few scraps of worked wood, had been gathered together in this depression, like an enormous nest. Here and there throughout the loose earth, large stones had been set, deep gouges in them. Two shapes moved about inside the nest, just out of sight of the hunters.

The trio paused at the edge of the mound, watching the nest' warily. Rodrick, taking care not to make any sound, edged a little closer, retrieving a discarded scale from the loose earth. He pulled back, retreating into the underbrush out of sight of the creatures. Ylia scooted closer, looking over his shoulder as he examined the scale.

"This doesn't make sense..." The scale, gleaming like a gemstone, turned between his fingers. A red aura filled it, shot through with inky blackness.

"I thought the creature we were following had green scales?" Ylia whispered.

"Exactly, but look- these scales are nothing like the ones we've been finding on the trail. These things... they're not the same species as what we've been following."

"But the trail leads here." Ylia pointed out. "How can-?"

The Witcheress was interrupted by a deep, throaty roar. The trio turned to see a large shape emerge from the edge of the forest, approaching the nest with heavy, lumbering footsteps.

The beast balanced upon two legs, using its broad wings to support itself as it moved. Enormous claws adorned each foot's three toes, sickle-like in shape and wickedly sharp. The creature's scales shone emerald green in the sunlight, covering the heavily muscled, broadly built body. An enormous crest spanned from the tip of the beast's snout all the way to the crown of the skull, where it met an array of four massive horns. Sharp spikes protruded from its spine, running down its body's length all the way to its whip-like tail.

The monster released a low bellow from its chest, opening its maw wide. A forked tongue darted out from behind a fearsome set of long, white fangs. It spread its wings, their vast expanse stretching well over ten metres.

Now that he could see it more clearly, Rodrick instantly knew what it was. A Royal Wyvern, just as Ylia had suspected, but there was something off about it. The claws were much larger than was normal for its species, and its jaw was somewhat misshapen, the lower half more pronounced than normal. Even its wings seemed wider than the Witcher would have expected. Perhaps some kind of crossbreed?

"Are you seeing it, too?" Ylia asked. Rodrick nodded.

"A Royal Wyvern, but there's something else in its ancestry. That wing shape... can you see some Dragon in there?"

"Would explain why we had so much trouble identifying it from the trail." Ylia mused.

"I was not aware that Dragons could interbreed with other species." Fauve commented.

"Its rare. Very rare." Rodrick explained, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Its said that a Noble Dragon sired the line of Golden Basilisks of Zerrikania. A Dragon-Wyvern hybrid is a new one on me, though. Maybe that's how we ended up with the Royal Wyvern subspecies to begin with."

"But why would a sentient creature like a Dragon bond with a primitive beast like a Wyvern?" Ylia asked.

"Why not?" Fauve asked. "If it aids in the preservation of the blood, the continuation of the species in one form or another..."

"But how can there be love in a bond like that?" The Witcheress countered.

"Not all living things are like the Dh'oinne." Fauve commented with a somewhat disdainful expression. "Things like love and romance are not necessary for the reproductive process. For other creatures, they mean naught."

Ylia opened her mouth to respond to the Dryad's dispassionate comments, but was interrupted as, in the clearing, the beast let out a loud roar, a commanding call. At the sound, the two shapes in the nest let out smaller roars of their own in response, and emerged. The creatures were long, with slender bodies, about two metres in length each, all covered in black-red scales. Four legs, ending in large, five-toed feet, clutched at the branches of the nest eagerly, if a little clumsily, as they scrambled up and over the edge. Their claws, curved hooks several inches in length, gleamed blackly in the morning light. No spines adorned their backs, but wide red and black crests graced their heads. Their bodies tapered down into long, serpentine tails. Broad, leathery wings, like those of a bat, spread out from their bodies.

"Damn..." Rodrick breathed as he stared at the two smaller creatures.

"Okay, so there's nothing crossbred about those." Ylia stated. "Those are pure-bred Dragons, yes? Noble ones?"

"A mix of Red and Black, but with a pure Dragon genealogy, yes." Rodrick affirmed. "Judging by the size, only a few months old. They're still shedding their first skin, if the pliability of these scales is anything to judge by. Their second and third sets of scales will be much thicker."

Out in the clearing, the two young drakes had descended the mound, approaching the Wyvern carefully. The larger beast towered over them, making a low, crooning sound as they drew close. The two juvenile beasts scuttled across the ground, looking up at the Wyvern curiously. One of them trilled, a sharp, high-pitched noise that seemed to contain a question. Soon, its sibling joined it, the pair opening their jaws wide as they tilted their heads up expectantly. For a moment, Ylia was reminded of chicks in a nest, crying out for food. The Wyvern obliged. With a heave of its throat muscles, the larger reptile vomited up a sticky red pulp, first feeding one drake, then the other.

"Wow..." Rodrick breathed. "Actual parental behaviour."

"But how?" Ylia asked. "There's no way that thing could spawn a pair of pure-bred drakes like that!"

"The Rock Dragon is said to have strong parental instincts." The older Witcher mused. "Sometimes, a wild Basilisk will place its eggs in the Rock Dragon's nest, and the Dragon adopts the young, feeding it alongside its own spawn. If this Wyvern has some Rock Dragon in its lineage, then it could have inherited those parental instincts. Maybe the eggs were secretly placed in its nest by the drakes' actual parents, or maybe it found the eggs abandoned, and took them back to the nest."

"So its now adopted the drakes as its own." Ylia peered back out into the clearing. "I see no evidence of a mate. Maybe this creature had no young of its own?"

"Its possible." Fauve added. "We know of a few Draconids within the borders of the Brokilon, even a few Werryn. But this is the first Werryn Brennael I have heard tell of within our borders in well over a decade."

Rodrick instantly recognised the names the Dryad used, fragments of Elder Speech. He stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"Hmm... the drakes could explain why the Wyvern is ranging further afield. With three mouths to feed, it needs to hunt more prey."

"Doesn't explain why it isn't flying as much as it should." Ylia responded. "I thought it was just the extra weight of its prey, but judging by what you saw, it would seem more like the creature is injured."

"Aye." Rodrick affirmed. "But we need to take a closer look, to be certain."

"How?" Ylia asked.

A faint rustle behind them prompted the two Witchers to turn, spotting Fauve placing her bare feet firmly on the trunk of a broad tree, her fingers clutching tightly at the bark, finding the slightest purchase. She glanced back at the Witchers as she climbed, raising a questioning eyebrow, then continued her ascent, lithely swinging herself onto the lowest branch. Balancing precariously, the Dryad began to move, leaping from branch to branch with graceful ease.

Down below, Ylia turned to Rodrick. The Witcheress felt the ghost of a grin tug at her lips. Rodrick caught the expression, and immediately raised his hands.

"Oh no. Hell no!" He protested. "I remember what happened in Master Ulnar's orchard. I'm not doing that again. You go after her. I'm keeping my feet firmly on the ground."

"Your loss!" Ylia grinned broadly, spinning to race towards the tree. in moments, albeit not quite as gracefully at the Dryad before her, Ylia had clambered up into the canopy, following Fauve swiftly.

~o~0~o~

The pair had managed to travel around the edge of the clearing, leaping from bough to branch with acrobatic grace. Even for all her speed and agility, the Witcheress was hard pressed to keep up with the Dryad, Fauve clearly more practised at traversing the forest in this way. Feeling a little breathless, Ylia focused on her companion, eyes fixed firmly on where she stepped, what branches supported her weight with ease, how she twisted and shifted her body to make each jump. Ylia tried her best to mimic these movements, managing to keep up with her.

In no time at all, they'd drawn close to where the Wyvern had now curled up at the base of a tree. The enormous beast breathed heavily, a deep, bass rumble that reverberated through the forest around it. Its eyes had closed, forked tongue slithering back and forth behind the monstrous fangs. By its side, the two drakes tussled in the dirt, nipping and snapping at one another in a mock-battle.

The duo slowed, carefully moving from tree to tree to gain a better view of the Wyvern. As Fauve crouched on one branch, leaning out precariously for a better view, Ylia sidled up next to her. The pair gazed down at the beast, looking for any oddities.

"There." Ylia pointed towards the beast's wing.

About halfway along the leading edge of the wing, a sudden shift in the line of the bone structure could be seen. Under the skin, one of the bones was clearly broken, thick swelling obvious under taut flesh. As the Wyvern shifted in its slumber, the wing moved, and the break flexed awkwardly, eliciting a pained grunt from the beast.

"I need to get a better look." Ylia whispered, shifting along the branch. With a little grunt of effort, she shifted from one branch to another, moving still closer to the sleeping Wyvern.

Cr-ack!

The sound was loud, like a thundercrack in the previously silent glade. Ylia froze as the branch shifted under her a little, the echoes of the creaking, snapping sound bouncing back at her.

In the glade, the two drakes looked up from their play fight, staring straight at the pair with gleaming yellow eyes. Directly beneath Ylia, mere feet from where she perched, the Wyvern's eyes snapped open, and narrowed as they focused directly on her.


	7. Chapter 7

Rodrick crouched in the bushes on the edge of the clearing, careful eyes watching the Wyvern and the drakes it had apparently adopted. The two young Draconids tussled in the dirt, snapping and scratching at one another playfully. Occasionally, they would take a break from their play-fighting to approach one of the large chunks of rock set into the soil of the nest. The huge reptiles would scrape up against the rocky outcroppings, rubbing loose scales from their back, before turning to scrape and gnaw at the rock. Rodrick had observed the behaviour before, in young Forktails. A way for the growing reptiles to sharpen the deadly weapons their biology had given them.

The Wyvern, meanwhile, had curled up in the shade of a particularly broad tree. Its long tail purled up under its large, misshapen skull, while one of the wings covered its body. The creature slumbered peacefully, throat swelling and deflating with every breath.

It had been some minutes since Ylia and Fauve had vanished into the trees, only the faintest rustling of parting leaves indicating their position as they moved swiftly towards the slumbering Draconid. As their drew close, the sounds of their motion became more faint, slowing to hide their progress from the Wyvern's ears.

Rodrick felt a tight knot form in his stomach. He hated holding back, waiting, especially while it was Ylia, of all people, who rushed into danger. Granted, a Wyvern was common enough prey for a Witcher. A challenge, but not insurmountable. A beast of this size, though, could be dangerous, especially with the additional consideration of the young drakes, and the parental instincts that would come with any threat to them. As the thought of an enraged mother Wyvern charging straight at Ylia caused every muscle in Rodrick's body to grow tense. Subconsciously, he reached for the hilt of his silver blade.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. Above the Wyvern, a flash of fiery red, Ylia's hair. Beside her, almost invisible among the leaves, was Fauve's olive skin. The pair scuttled along one of the thicker branches over the beast's head, straining for a closer look. As Rodrick watched, Ylia shifted a little, moving onto the next branch.

The snap was loud enough even for Rodrick to hear it, echoing around the clearing. The branch Ylia crouched upon sagged, forcing the young Witcheress to jolt uncertainly, just barely keeping her balance.

"Oh, shit!" The Witcher leapt to his feet, sword already slithering out of its sheath.. "Ylia!"

~o~0~o~

With a roar, the Wyvern lunged, enormous jaws snapping. Ylia dodged, leaping from the branch with arms outstretched. Her grasping fingers found purchase on another bough, allowing her to swing deftly aside. Behind her, the long white fangs snapped at air, the beast releasing a frustrated snort.

A paid of green-skinned feet landed on the branch next to her hand, toes curling to dig into the contours of the bark tightly. Fauve reached down, grabbing the Witcheress roughly by the shoulder and hauling her bodily up onto the bough. In spite of the massive reptile snarling at them, the Dryad remained calm, focused. Her dark eyes gleamed with purpose as she hissed at Ylia through clenched teeth.

"Move!"

Barely had the word left her lips than the Wyvern attacked again, slamming the side of its skull against the tree to send shocks reverberating up through the thick boughs. Ylia found herself hard pressed to keep her footing, the vibrations shuddering up through her bones. Steadying herself with outstretched arms, the Witcheress leapt to another tree, then another, picking up speed. Behind her, Fauve followed closely.

The Wyvern let lose another titanic roar, pursuing the pair from underneath. Its lumbering steps thundered as it spread its wings awkwardly for stability. Smaller trees were shouldered aside as the bulky creature chased its prey.

Ylia kept moving, deftly shifting from branch to branch. She spared a glance over her shoulder to see the Wyvern, in spite of its ungainly size and gait, was gaining on them. The Draconid lunged after Fauve, jaws snapping around a branch roughly the same size as Ylia's leg. The massive jaw muscles clenched, and the branch shattered into dozens of splinters, sending a shockwave through the tree. the Dryad, caught unawares, stumbled as her own branch trembled, causing her to trip. For a long, heart-stopping moment, Fauve tumbled through the air before a thick bough struck her in the stomach, driving all the air from her lungs. The Dryad curled around the branch reflexively, momentarily disoriented.

Ylia felt a knot of panic rise in her gullet as she stopped running, spinning to face her companion. A cry of worry and fear strangled itself in her mouth as she saw, behind the Dryad, the Wyvern drawing closer, opening its enormous jaws.

~o~0~o~

The thunder of the roused Wyvern quickly drew the attention of the two drakes, the young Draconids beginning to slither over to where their 'parent' was attacking the trees that held Ylia and Fauve.

In moments, Rodrick realised, the duo would have three rampaging Draconids to contend with, instead of just one. A Royal Wyvern on its own would be challenge enough, but the whole family unit? The Witcher didn't like his companions' odds.

Rodrick needed to act, and quickly. But how? If he attacked and killed the drakes outright, the Wyvern would likely fly into a frenzy, further endangering Ylia's safety, something he was absolutely unwilling to do.

Then, as quick as a flash, an idea blossomed in his head. He reached for the pouches on his belt, quickly producing a vial of pressed Wolf Aloe oil. With a practised motion, and being careful not to get it on his exposed skin, the Witcher applied the oil to the edge of his blade. Then, with a loud cry, Rodrick charged.

The two drakes twitched at the Witcher's howl, snakelike necks twisting to face him. Their lips drew back in a fierce snarl, white fangs gleaming in the sunlight, as they turned towards him. Small gouts of flame spurted from their throats as they met Rodrick's charge.

Instinct took over as Rodrick slipped into something akin to a battle-trance. His blade moved into a high guard, catching one set of slashing claws, then dropped low to slash at the other drake's foreleg, forcing it to scuttle back a couple steps. He took a half-step back, then traced the rune of Quen in the air, conjuring a protective barrier around himself, which blocked a savage bite and a swift tail whip.

The Witcher spun, blade tracing a shining arc in the air as he dropped low, catching one of the drakes across the chest. The young Dragon howled a protest, flinching back from the tiny wound. Rodrick allowed himself a small, grim smirk. The Wolf Aloe was doing its work, then.

His satisfaction was interrupted by a sudden blast of flame from the second drake. A small gasp of fire, little more than a gout some two feet across, it lacked the intensity to truly threaten the Witcher, but the flash of flame was enough to catch his eye, forcing him to turn and face his second opponent. He parried a slash of the beast's claws, then twisted his sword until he could deliver a quick riposte, piercing the drake's leg. The Draconid let out a grunt of surprise, then limped back, its gait unsteady all of a sudden.

Rodrick continued like this, jabbing and slashing at the drakes. Occasionally, the young Dragons would get past his defences, scoring a few hits on his leather armour, but thankfully the thick layers took the brunt of the hits, allowing him to persevere.

Mere moments later, the drakes began to slow, their heads drooping as their limbs became sluggish, unresponsive. Finally, after another stunningly quick flurry from the Witcher, the drakes both dropped into the dirt, first one then the other, chests heaving wearily. Thinking quickly, Rodrick tore two strips of cloth from his shirt, doused them in more Wolf Aloe, then placed a strip over the snout of each drake, close to their twitching nostrils.

The two drakes dealt with, Rodrick turned to the crash and clatter of motion that declared where the Wyvern was chasing Ylia and Fauve. He stood, moving towards the commotion. As he entered the tree-line, the Wyvern and its quarry came into view, the beast snapping and snarling at their heels. The Wyvern locked its jaws around a thick bough, crunching through it effortlessly and causing Fauve to stumble. Rodrick immediately saw the danger as the Dryad struggled to clamber back to her feet, the Wyvern's maw mere feet away from her.

~o~0~o~

Ylia's hands moved without any clear thought, drawing a bolt from her quiver as her crossbow was already rising in her other hand. With deft fingers, she loaded the bolt and drew back the string, firing the weapon in a blink.

The lethal shaft leapt across the forest, striking the Wyvern in the cheek, just below the eye socket. The beast reeled back from the attack, howling in pain, before the large, slitted eyes rotated in their sockets to look at the Witcheress. The Dryad forgotten, the monster began to lurch towards Ylia.

Knowing that she shouldn't take the beast on single-handedly, but still wanting to keep it distracted from her Dryad companion, Ylia drew two more bolts from her quiver, placing one between her teeth as she loaded the other. She managed to get off another shot, striking the Wyvern in the shoulder, before it reached the bole of her tree, wings reaching up so that the claws located on the knuckle joints could dig into the bark, supporting its body as one foot lifted up, then the other, massive claws biting deep into the heart of the tree. Realising her danger, Ylia ascended, crossbow in one hand, bolt still locked between her teeth. Her fingers scrabbled in the bark of the tree, barely able to find purchase as she climbed higher and higher.

Below, the Wyvern struggled higher, feet tearing deep gouges in the tree. Its tail curled beneath it, pushing against the ground as it stretched further, jaws snapping at Ylia's booted feet. Still, the Witcheress remained ahead of its efforts, managing to clamber onto another branch, regaining her footing. Keeping the spare bolt clenched between her teeth, she drew another bolt from her quiver, carefully loading and aiming the crossbow. She fired, scoring a successful hit to the beast's throat. The Wyvern, still unable to reach its prey, flew into a maddened frenzy, thrashing its body against the tree.

Ylia, surprised by the sudden flurry of wild movement, staggered, her booted feet slipping on a patch of moss. In a moment of gut-wrenching inertia, she was momentarily airborne, falling free of the tree. Weightlessness filled her stomach for a moment before, with a stifled grunt of surprise, she fell, plummeting straight down.

She struck a hard surface, groaning as all the air fought to escape her lungs. Dazed for but a moment, she looked to either side to see four large, black horns encircling her. Scaled hide lay beneath her as it dawned on the Witcheress that she had landed directly on the Wyvern's huge skull.

The beast, feeling the Witcheress' presence, instantly shook its head from side to side, frantically trying to dislodge her. Ylia, thinking fast, grabbed one of the horns, turning to reach for another with her free hand. She looked about just in time to see her crossbow, knocked loose during her fall, tumble away, down towards the forest floor. Too unsteady to draw her swords from her back, much less wield one of them effectively, she instead reached for another weapon, unexpectedly available to her- the crossbow bolt, still tightly held between her teeth. Wrapping one arm around a horn, she allowed herself to slide down the side of the beast's skull, holding on for dear life. She drew her hand back and, with a yell jabbed down, hard, against the Wyvern's cheek. The crossbow bolt, normally designed for much smaller prey, struggled to pierce the thick hide, but the Witcheress' strength and ferocity drove it home, summoning forth a gout of black-red blood as it pierced the flesh beneath the scales. Still clinging on for dear life, Ylia traced a rune of Aard over the exposed end of the crossbow bolt and cast the Sign, the magical push driving the wooden shaft through the cheek and into the mouth.

While the bolt was small, the shock of its passage was enough to send a spasm through the Wyvern's body. Its claws clenched, then relaxed as the Draconid let go of the tree, plummeting to the ground and taking Ylia with it.

The beast landed on the forest floor with a mighty crash, the twisting of its body throwing Ylia clear. The Witcheress rolled a few times, then hit the base of a broad tree, bones rattling as the breath was driven from her lungs. Something sharp, an exposed piece of rock, most likely, struck her cheek, summoning forth a stream of warm blood flowing down across her jawline. For a moment, all the young Witcher could do was lay there, and gasp, trying to regain her bearings.

A mere five metres away, the Wyvern stirred again. Seemingly regaining its composure, the beast rose to its feet, looking about hungrily for its prey. Realising that there would be no more running, no more hiding, Ylia finally unsheathed her sword. With a defiant roar, she made ready to charge the beast. The Wyvern answered her challenge with a terrifying roar of its own.

As the beast took first one, then another step, a towering figure emerged from the forest beside it. Rodrick, silver blade held high, rushed the Wyvern, barrelling into its side with a shoulder barge powerful enough to stagger the beast. The Witcher leapt back, taking a wild swing at the monster, scoring a long hit along its shoulder and calling forth a pained snort. The Wyvern snapped at him, but the Witcher managed to roll under the wicked fangs, this time slashing upwards to score a hit on its neck, a spray of blood coating his armour in wide, fat droplets. He then twisted his blade to stab sideways, piercing the thigh of one of its legs. As he finished his movement, he found himself on the far side of the staggering beast, closer to Ylia.

Far above, a green streak appeared out of the canopy. Fauve, lithe form moving across the branches with ease, leapt into the air, bow in hand. She soared over the Wyvern's head, firing an arrow at the height of her arc, scoring a direct hit on the creature's back, causing it to flinch in pain. With a graceful pirouette, the Dryad landed on another branch, turning to fire another arrow as the Wyvern turned to face her. The beast, infuriated, snapped at her, but the Dryad remained just beyond its reach.

Back on the ground, Rodrick had managed to join Ylia, the pair sharing a single nod, before turning to regard their prey.

"How do we deal with this thing?" Ylia asked, still somewhat breathless from her fall.

"I'd hoped we could disable it, but I don't think its gonna give us the choice." Rodrick's eyes scanned the surrounding forest before alighting upon a large, black tree, covered in thick, creeping moss. Ylia followed his gaze, already suspecting what he was about to propose. "Hey, you remember what Master Owine did to that Shaelmar back in Tretogor?"

"You can't be serious..." Ylia ducked as the Wyvern, still chasing Fauve as she harried it with more arrows, whipped around, its long tail flicking close to the Witchers. "Alright, I guess we don't have many other options, not if we want to disable it rather than kill it. I take it you have the needed supplies for this. How do we get that thing where we need it to be? High and Low?"

"It always was my favourite game." Rodrick grinned, a smile that Ylia returned.

"Gods, I missed this." Ylia smirked. "Ready when you are."

"Go!" Rodrick burst into motion, rushing at the Wyvern with a yell. He slashed at the beast, landing another blow to its hind quarters and summoning an indignant, furious roar as the beast spun. The Witcher dropped again as the Wyvern's jaws snapped over his head, a bite that would have cut him in two. Rodrick, drawing in a deep breath, pulled one hand back and, with a terrible shout, cast the Aard Sign, directly into the chin of the beast, a mighty magical shove tilting the creature's head back and forcing it to stagger away a couple of steps, dazed.

Behind Rodrick, Ylia burst into motion. She raced forward, leaping at just the right moment to place a foot on the shoulder of the still-kneeling Witcher. Rodrick, at the same moment, stood, adding to the speeding Witcheress' momentum to launch her further into the air. Sword in hand, Ylia leapt with all her might, managing to land on the creature's back with grace. Before it could respond to her presence, she attacked with her silver blade, a few small nicks here and there to agitate it. Fauve aided her from a distance, firing a few arrows here and there to prick the beast's side.

Rodrick, directly in front of the Wyvern, slashed again as it swiped at him with its wing, just missing the Witcher's head.

"Spark!" He shouted over the beast's rumbling. "Make it go left!"

Above, Ylia nodded, shifting carefully between the wings. With a growl, she jabbed the point of her blade into the creature's shoulder, forcing it to twist in response to the pain. Down below, Rodrick moved with the Wyvern, trying to serve as the bait. The creature alternated between snapping at the Witcher before it, and trying to dislodge the one that clambered across its back like a very stubborn spider.

They continued in this way for a few more moments until, finally, they'd guided the Wyvern towards the tree that Rodrick had noticed. The Witcher took another swipe at the beast, teasing and guiding a final step, then bellowed out a command.

"Now!" He drew a small glass sphere from his belt, cast an Igni Sign over the fuse, and threw it, before turning and bolting.

In the same moment Ylia, knowing what would happen next, ran along the length of the Wyvern's body, launching herself with an acrobatic twirl to land in the dirt a short distance behind the beast.

The Wyvern, confused, looked at the shining glass sphere that landed next to the tree it now stood under. It only had a moment to glance about in confusion before the explosive, for that was what Rodrick had thrown, detonated.

The explosion was small, but powerful. Red flame filled a cloud of black smoke as an expanding wall of concussive force struck both tree and Wyvern. The beast staggered, put off-balance, but the tree fared far worse. Rotten to the core after catching some blight in past years, the base of the tree crumbled into dust, mouldy flinders spraying out across the forest floor. The tree, now lacking a stable base, began to topple, directly on top of the Wyvern. The beast, with a howl of dismay, soon vanished under the falling tree.

After several long, quite moments, the smoke finally cleared. The two Witchers rose slowly to their feet, looking to where the Wyvern had last stood.

The beast was now completely pinned by the remains of the tree, too weary to push the crumbling wood aside. It let out an indignant, defeated growl, chuffing as it strained to move its legs or heave its body against its new-found restraints.

Rodrick raced over, already pulling a few items from his pouches. A handful of Nostrix berries, some Wolf Aloe oil, a dash of White Gull... he mixed them together in a small wooden bowl, after which the mixture immediately began to smoke and fume, Noxious vapours rose from the bowl, which the Witcher swiftly placed directly in front of the Wyvern's snout. The beast tried to turn away, but its head was pinned, and soon the fumes filled its nostrils. Moments later, a glassy light filled its eyes, and the Wyvern went still, unconscious.

Rodrick sighed, leaning back on his heels. He looked up, eyes meeting Ylia's over the Wyvern's enormous head. The pair shared a warm, if weary, smile, a sigh of relief from the taller Witcher the only sound on the suddenly still air.

"We did it!"


	8. Chapter 8

Silence had fallen over the glade, the only sounds being the heaving of the Wyvern's chest and the grumble of shifting wood. Rodrick moved around the huge body, tending to injuries here and there. To one side, Ylia sat in the shade of one of the larger trees, her crossbow in her lap. The Witcheress watched her friend, handling the weapon ponderously. The crossbow was damaged beyond repair, its limbs cracked, the stock shattered. It would never fire another projectile. As she regretfully regarded the broken weapon, she idly hummed a light-hearted Koviri sea shanty she remembered from her younger years.

Rodrick, meanwhile, continued his work, inspecting the wounds that marked the Wyvern after its struggle with the Witchers. Close by, his entire collection of herbs and oils had been spread out on the forest floor, treatments for almost any kind of injury. At the beast's snout, a bowl of herbs still smouldered, filling its lungs with smoke and vapours to keep it placid.

A quiet rustle announced the arrival of Fauve, the Dryad's normally still expression, almost impossible to read, now twisted with a deep frown. She strode directly over to Rodrick, purpose gleaming in her eyes. Rodrick, seeing her approach, stood, dusting his hands off as he spoke.

"Ah, Fauve. I was-"

The Dryad's hand caught him at the throat, lifting the large-framed Witcher bodily and thrusting him back against a tree. Rodrick had only enough time to let out a startled gurgle before he struck the tree, surprised by the much smaller Dryad's strength. Her arm felt like the trunk of a towering oak, the sinews and muscles taut under her flesh. Her lips twisted downwards in a furious snarl as she spoke between clenched teeth.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Her voice was low, a feral growl. Her free hand moved in an expansive gesture, pointing to the crumbled tree, the base of which was blackened from the explosion. "You brought flame into our home!"

Ylia leapt to her feet, rushing over to the Dryad's side. In Fauve's tight, vice-like grip, Rodrick grunted, clawing at her fingers to try and open his airway again. He managed a few gasped words.

"There was... no other... way!" His eyes bulged.

"More Dh'oinne lies!" She hissed.

"Fauve!" Ylia protested. "Let him go!"

"He has broken the most sacred of our laws!" The Dryad growled.

"A law he did not know about." The Witcheress tried to reason with her.

"Ignorance is no excuse. His very presence threatens the forest." She spat the words. "I knew allowing a Vatt'ghern to walk within our borders was a mistake..."

"I... couldn't..." Rodrick's eyes bulged in their sockets, his cheeks turning a disconcerting shade. "Not... without... killing..."

"If we hadn't immobilised the beast, we would have been killed, or had to slaughter the Wyvern." Ylia placed her hand on Fauve's arm, eyes pleading. "We were doing everything in our power to avoid this. Please, Fauve. You know we would not have done this unless it was absolutely necessary."

Fauve's brows creased further as she silently glared at the Witcher held in her hand. After a long moment, she finally relented, releasing her grip. Rodrick slumped down onto his feet, clutching at the darkening marks on his throat. He nodded his thanks, first to the Dryad, but especially to Ylia. Fauve, ignoring his distress, turned to face the Wyvern, folding her arms across her bare chest.

"Well, what of the Werryn?" She asked, quirking her eyebrow. Still rasping for breath, Rodrick stepped over.

"Most of the injuries we inflicted were fairly superficial. A few deep flesh wounds, but they will heal, in time." He smirked, looking the beast over. "Its a robust specimen. A male, strangely enough. I always thought only the females tended the nest, while the males hunted. I guess this one lost its mate, and has to take on both sets of responsibilities."

"What of its injury?" The Dryad asked. "You said it fell out of the sky, and was not able to fly correctly afterwards."

"Yes..." Rodrick said quietly, moving around to the beast's side.

He indicated the wing, pinned to its side by the weight of the tree. His fingers ran over the swollen mass of flesh halfway along its length. At even his gentle touch, the Wyvern grunted in pain. The Witcher turned to his two companions.

"There is very little I can do here." He said, somewhat reluctantly. "The bone is broken in two separate places, less than a finger's length apart. The beast continued trying to fly, in spite of this, and only worsened the damage until he completely lost the ability to fly. The broken ends of the bone have shifted away from one another, and are out of alignment. The chances of it healing are very slim, and the odds of it being strong enough to support the creature's weight in the air are non-existent. The Wyvern will never fly again."

Fauve's expression softened, a somewhat sorrowful gleam appearing in her eyes. She knelt down next to the beast's head, reaching out to stroke the snout.

"What can be done?" The Dryad asked.

"If we leave it as it is, then the beast will struggle more and more each day." Rodrick explained. "Already he cannot hope to catch most wild prey. He will likely move to hunt domesticated animals, like cattle and horses. In the end, one of two things will happen- either he draws the wrath of a Human settlement, and is slain or draws a battue here, into your lands."

Silence fell across the trio for a long, long moment. Ylia, standing close to Fauve, reached down to rest a comforting hand on her shoulder. The Dryad mulled over the situation.

"Whatever we do, allowing this creature to continue with such a wound will only lead to more chaos." She allowed a low sigh to escape from her lips. "I must protect my home, and the lives within it, from all threats."

Fauve stood, drawing the crystal dagger from the sheath on her thigh. She stalked around the Wyvern's head, kneeling down next to it. A slim, olive-green arm draped over the wide neck, gentle, comforting. Then, with a swift, strong thrust, she drove the blade deep into the beast's throat, finding one of the main arteries. Thick, red-black blood poured out in a torrent, coating her hand, her blade and her feet. The Wyvern tensed, eyes opening in shock even through the heady, sleep-inducing fumes of Rodrick's burning herbs. The monster's body tensed, back arching as it shifted the tree trunk pinning it. Feet shifted in the dirt as the Wyvern released a few wet, gurgling gasps, blood flowing into an open throat and flooding its lungs. All the while, Fauve did not move, keeping her hand on the beast's neck, locking her gaze with its pained, startled eye. The beast released a few more gurgling gasps, its body slowing, until finally it lay still. It drew in two more damp breaths, then went completely still. Eyes, misting over, slowly closed. Finally, once all essence of life had ebbed from the beast's body, Fauve turned away, her face still, stony.

"Come on." She gestured to the two Witchers. "We still have two drakes to deal with."

"Wait..." Ylia felt a knot in her stomach at the Dryad's tone. "What do you mean 'deal with'?"

Fauve kept moving, silent. A flare of irritation rising in her breast, Ylia rushed to catch up with her, grabbing the Dryad by the elbow. Fauve turned, meeting Ylia's defiant blue eyes with her own hazel ones. The pair stared each other down for a long moment. Ylia became very aware of the warm, cloying stench of blood from the Dryad's hands.

"What are you planning to do to those drakes?" Ylia was almost certain of the answer.

"Without a parent to raise them, these creatures will grow up feral." Fauve pointed to the clearing, and the nest within. "These are beasts of fire. Unchecked, they could burn down the entirety of the Brokilon."

"You cannot punish them for what they are." Ylia contended. "Two healthy young Dragons... we might not see something like this for another century!"

"I do not take any lives lightly, Vatt'ghern." Fauve pulled away sharply, breaking Ylia's grip. "But my duty to my home must always take precedent."

"They're young, they've done nothing to harm you, or your forest!" Ylia protested. "If you allow them to live, they'll grow into intelligent, sentient creatures. You need to give them that chance!"

"My people have many tales of the Draigge." Fauve replied. "Great wyrms with flaming tongues and terrible wrath. We cannot allow two such beasts to grow within our lands."

"Then let us take them away from here." Ylia pleaded, looking to Rodrick for support. "We can get them out of the Brokilon, away from here and far enough away that they never pose a threat to you again."

"We can?" Rodrick asked uncertainly.

"We will." Ylia insisted.

Fauve paused, looking to each of the Witchers carefully. Then, with a sigh, she sheathed her dagger once more.

"Very well, Vatt'ghern." The Dryad relented, turning to walk back towards the nest. "I'll allow you to lead the Draiggen from our lands. What did you have planned?"

"There's a valley I know of, a few miles beyond the south-eastern border of the Brokilon. Its not far from the River Ribbon, in Brugge." Ylia explained as she hurried to stay by the Dryad's side. "Isolated, with a large amount of game for the drakes to hunt. Plenty low cliffs for them to practice flying from. They should be safe there, until they are grown."

"Sounds like a good plan, Spark. One question, though..." Rodrick, tailing behind the pair, was the last to emerge into the clearing where the two Dragon hatchlings still slumbered. "...how do you plan to get them there?"

Ylia paused, looking down at the huge, unconscious lizards. The Witcheress placed her hands on her hips, a plan already forming in her mind.


	9. Chapter 9

Dawn had risen upon the vast, emerald forest, the sun's first few beams of light filtering down through the branches. Somewhere nearby, a wood pigeon cooed in her nest, squatting protectively over her hatchlings while her mate foraged for the first morsels of food of the day, the first in a long succession for the ceaselessly ravenous young they now cared for.

In the clearing, the two young Dragons still slumbered, bowls of steaming herbs still in front of their snouts, keeping them from rousing. The pair snorted in their sleep, chuffing at creatures they saw in their dreams, spreading their wings as they flitted through the skies of their slumber. For just a moment, one could be forgiven for considering the two enormous, fire-breathing reptiles endearing, forgetting just how dangerous they truly were.

Through the night, the two Witchers had worked to bury the corpse of the Wyvern, heaping up branches, rocks, clods of earth and netlike sheets of moss over the huge body. Rodrick, ever prepared, opened several pouches on his gear, producing handfuls of strongly scented herbs and petals. He packed them around the funeral mound, coating the mass in a powerful, sweet aroma. Ylia, meanwhile, worked to clean her gear, removing every speck of blood, each scuff mark and tear. Fauve, all the while, watched them with a curious stare.

"Why do you Dh'oinne bury your dead?" She asked of Ylia, sitting next to her as the pair watched Rodrick work. "In the forest, we would leave a carcass such as this to nourish other creatures."

"Well, the Dh- the humans have different customs." Ylia explained, adjusting one of the straps on her bracers and finding a clot of Wyvern blood hidden away in one of the deep recesses of the leather. "Some believe in life beyond death, and think that the sanctity of their body must be preserved."

"Hmmf!" The Dryad grunted dismissively. "The Dh'oinne and their foolish ideas. They should give their dead to the land, to the beasts and the trees."

"You forget, humans only live to be sixty years, at best." Ylia said grimly. "If plague or war doesn't take them. If they handled their dead the same way as your people, we Witchers would be forever handling corpse-eaters and the like. We'd have no time for any other kind of beast!"

Fauve shrugged, leaning back against the trunk of a tree. As she did so, Ylia turned a sideways glance to her. Now, without the threat of a rampaging Wyvern, she could take in a few more details about her new Dryad acquaintance. The aroma of willow trees clung to the young tree nymph's body, the smell of spring and the wilds. Her hair, autumnal reddish-orange, was a wild tangle, a few leaves caught in it. The crystal knife still glistened in its sheath on her thigh. The Dryad caught her glance, but said nothing, instead staying focused on Rodrick and his work.

"That's as may be, but it doesn't explain why you are burying the Werryn."

"Well, we need to keep the hatchlings from finding and trying to stay with it." Ylia explained. "Burying it like this masks the scent, and will keep the drakes from coming back to the body. Otherwise, they may cling to it until they starve. If we're to lead them away, we have to hide all trace of this adoptive parent."

"I see." The Dryad placed a ponderous finger to her lips. "And then? You take away their reason to remain, but how do you plan to get them to follow you?"

"We have a magical sign that can be used to influence suggestible minds." Ylia explained.

"Magic?" Fauve asked dubiously. "You will need to be careful. These hatchlings will grow into sentient creatures, after all. To influence their minds at such a young age... it could be dangerous, and not just for them."

"The sign is very simple. "Ylia shrugged. "Barely more than a nudge. We will be careful, keep our instructions simple and direct."

"The plan seems sound. Hopefully, no harm will come of it." Fauve continued to watch Rodrick, who rose to his feet, dusting off his hands. He slowly approached the pair, a satisfied smile on his face.

"All set. Are we ready?"

~o~0~o~

Ylia felt a squirming knot of anxiety tying and untying itself in her stomach, over and over again. The Witcheress found herself in the middle of the clearing, next to the base of the mound that formed the base of the Wyvern's nest. The two Dragon hatchlings still slumbered in the dirt next to the nest, their barrel-like chests heaving as they drew in long, deep breaths. While Ylia watched tensely, Rodrick knelt next to them, taking away the herbs he had been using to keep them sedated. Back by the edge of the clearing, Fauve crouched on a low branch, her bow drawn, arrow nocked and ready to loose at the first sign of trouble.

Rodrick finished his work around the hatchlings, ending by waving a vial of sour-smelling salts under their snouts. One by one, each of the hatchlings snuffled, their lips peeling back as the pungent stench filled their nostrils. As they began to shift, their eyelids flickering, the Witcher leapt to his feet, backing away to stand next to Ylia.

"You ready?" He asked in a hushed whisper. She nodded. "Good. I'll take the one on the left, you the one on the right. Remember- just a light suggestion. We're gonna be doing this for a long time, so pace yourself." He met her gaze, his own eyes flashing with a serious light. "We don't need to crush their willpower, just direct it."

"I got it." Ylia nodded curtly, feeling a little flash of irritation at her friend's words. Sometimes, especially after rising to the rank of Master, he would forget that she had just as much experience as he did. She quelled the indignant spark that rose in her as, suddenly, the two young Dragons began moving more swiftly.

Rodrick's hatchling was the first to open its eyes, wide emerald green orbs with a narrow black slit down the centre. It looked about without focus for a moment, before the fog of unconsciousness faded, the slits narrowing as the eyes rotated in their sockets to look at the Witcher. The eyes narrowed, an angry snarl slipping across its lips, before Rodrick raised a steady hand and, with complete calm, traced the symbol of Axii in the air, muttering a few gentle words.

"Easy... Calm..." He paused, watching as the beast's posture relaxed, its muscles growing less tense. Ylia could feel the positive, comforting energy radiating from her fellow Witcher, soothing the hatchling's mind. "Calm..."

After watching her friend do this, Ylia turned to face her hatchling, just in time to see it turn its ruby-red gaze on her. The young Dragon snarled, flashing its ice-white fangs. Red gums the colour of blood showed as a deep grumble escaped from its throat. With just a little trepidation, Ylia raised her hand, casting the sign. She focused on the emotions she wanted to transmit, imagining a number of calming images. A pond in a deep forest, trees whispering in the wind, her old bed back at Kaer Marter. She focused on the contented, placid feelings these images summoned up, and thrust it through the magical sign, casting it over the young Dragon's mind like a blanket.

"Its okay..." She whispered, allowing each syllable to sink into the beast's mind. "I'm a friend. Take it easy."

In seconds, just like its sibling, the young Draconid settled down, muscles relaxing as its breathing slowed. Once she had a gentle but solid hold on the hatchling's mind, she spared Rodrick a silent nod.

The pair began to move away from the nest, keeping their wits about them and continually sparing backwards glances at the hatchlings. Once they had moved a few paces away, first one then the other drake began to slither after them, feet taking heavy, ponderous steps as they dragged their long, serpentine bodies after the two Witchers. In just a couple of minutes, the small procession moved out of the clearing, and away from the nest.

~o~0~o~

Night had fallen over the Brokilon, casting a thick, comforting darkness over the vast forest as the thick air of the ancient woodlands deadened all sounds. A few fireflies twinkled through the air, here and there, but other than that, all was still.

Far above the forest floor, the two Witchers and the Dryad had nestled themselves in the arms of a particularly large elm tree. Rodrick perched somewhat uncomfortably, clinging to the broad bough that supported him, while Ylia and Fauve seemed much more at home at such a height, resting more easily. Below them, curled up at the foot of the tree, the two Dragon hatchlings slumbered peacefully.

It had been a long day, the Witchers continuously coaxing the hatchlings to follow them through use of their signs. over time, they noticed the hatchlings needing less and less persuasion, as they moved away from the familiar surroundings and smells of the nest, delving deeper into new territory. Even so, the effort of such frequent magical exertions had taken its toll, tiring the Witchers considerably. Now, the pair were more than ready to sleep. Even so, they had to take it in turns, one of the trio staying up to watch the hatchlings while the others rested. It was first watch, which fell to Ylia.

The young Witcheress straddled her branch, kicking her legs idly as she gazed around at the forest. A song found its way to her lips, an older ditty she'd learned when she was younger.

"-Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done,

The Touissant Knight's taken my life,

But what does it matter, for all men must die,

and I've tasted the Touissant Knight's wife!

Oh I tasted the Touissant Knight's wife..."

"Why?"

Ylia almost fell from her perch, jolting at the sudden question. She turned to see Fauve's eyes, gleaming in the shadows where she curled up. The Dryad hugged her legs to her chest, chin resting on her knees. In the gloom, she almost faded to invisibility. Now, she watched Ylia with a sharp gaze. The Witcheress, heart still pounding a little from the surprise, spared a low chuckle.

"Fauve." She smiled, slowing her breathing. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"You did not." The Dryad answered flatly. "My kind do not need as much sleep as the Dh'oinne." She shifted a little, relaxing back against the trunk of the tree. "I have never had much chance to listen to the music of your people. It is strange. Why would you be happy to have 'tasted' the Touissant Knight's wife? Nothing was achieved. No offspring was spawned, nothing was gained, and now he is dead. If anything, he has lost out from the experience, as now he is not able to continue his family line."

"Its... Its not really about that." Ylia tried to explain, turning to face the Dryad. "The singer doesn't pursue the Touissant Knight's wife to start a family, or have children. He falls for her beauty, and pursues her for the adventure, the thrill of it."

"I don't understand."

"You've never just done something for the fun of it, just to see what it's like?"

"Why?"

"To prove that you can!" Ylia's eyes sparkled as she spoke. "To see what comes after, to find out what lies beyond the horizon, to taste the adventure!"

"My people do not view the world in this way." Fauve sighed. "Everything has its place in nature, its purpose." She shook her head. "I do not understand this Dh'oinne fascination with 'adventure', 'love' and 'excitement'. It makes it very difficult to fully understand your music. But, I can appreciate the melodies, and your voice is gentle, pleasing to the ear."

"Thank you." Ylia felt a rush of warmth in her cheeks at the Dryad's words.

Fauve regarded her for a moment longer, clearly mulling something over in her mind. She turned her gaze to the forest around them.

"I... wanted to thank you. For saving me." The Dryad sounded almost uncertain, clearly unused to such expressions of gratitude, especially towards one not of her kind. "If you hadn't distracted the Werryn with that shot..."

"It was nothing, really." Ylia looked away, somewhat bashful at the Dryad's words. "I just did what I was trained for."

"Even so, it was brave, to draw the beast's attention like that." Her eyes flashed in the darkness, scanning the trees around them. "And it was quite the shot. My people pride themselves on their skill with a bow and arrow, but even I must admit that the precision of that bolt was most impressive."

Ylia smiled at the compliment, before the memory of her broken crossbow snagged at her mood. A twinge of sadness afflicted her, regret at the loss. She'd received that crossbow from Treysse, a gift from the older Witcher to aid her in her time on the Path. It had been a faithful companion at her side for many years. Fauve, less aware of human emotions, seemed to miss the Witcheress' dip in mood, instead continuing to speak as she watched a small, dark shape flit through the branches above, a bat hunting for insects.

"You bought me the time to recover my footing and distance myself from the creature, at great risk to yourself. I did not expect that from a Dh'oinne, much less one of the Vatt'ghern."

She glanced to her Witcher companion, and her lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. Ylia met her gaze and, a little timidly, returned the gesture. Fauve straightened, rising to her feet and pacing along her branch. She stretched, flexing her slender arms over her head as she worked the knots out of her neck. She walked closer to Ylia, glancing down at the two hatchlings below, sparing the Witcher a quiet mutter, voice low enough not to disturb the sleeping Draconids.

"You should get some sleep. I will take the rest of the watch. You will need your energy for tomorrow's efforts."

Ylia nodded her thanks, shuffling towards the niche where the branch met the tree. The Witcheress curled up, leaning her head back against the moss-covered bark. She spared a look down at the hatchlings below, slumbering gently. As the Witcheress slowly drifted off into a deep slumber, a faint humming reached her ears. It took her a few moments to realise that the muted singing was coming from Fauve, the Dryad offering a gentle tune to the forest. The ethereal melody drifted across the Brokilon, lulling Ylia to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

Leaves rustled in the breeze, a stiff north wind winding its way through the dense forest. Even here, in the depths of the Brokilon, the chill managed to permeate, the last few whispers of the departing winter. The underbrush shivered, sending murmuring whispers echoing from tree to tree, while a couple of birds twittered in the shifting branches.

Below, a lone doe moved cautiously through the forest, nibbling at a fern here, licking the moist dew from a thick patch of moss there, gently winding her way between the trees. The young deer paused, teeth tugging at a stubborn bloom of Feainnewedd, its sweet taste a favourite of her kind.

The sudden snap reached the doe's ears, causing her to freeze in place, like a statue. Her ears twitches, rotating to find the source of the noise. Her head turned slowly, looking for any threat.

The two Dragons burst forth from the bushes nearby, hissing as their jaws gaped. Tongues lashed hungrily at the air as they scrambled, somewhat clumsily, towards the deer.

The deer, instantly spotting the danger, burst into a frenzied dash away, hooves pawing at the dirt underfoot, casting up big clods of loose earth. She twisted and turned, weaving her way past a couple of towering yew trees. The hatchlings, with indignant, hungry rumblings escaping from their chests, bounded after her.

The doe led the chase for a short while, her more agile body able to duck and weave through narrower gaps. Behind her, the two Dragons doggedly pursued with panting breath. Then, all too quickly, one of the Dragons, the green-eyed male, surged forward. His powerful muscles bunched under his scales, claws digging into the trunk of a fallen tree underneath him as, with a grunt, he leapt forwards, wings spreading out with a powerful flap as he surged after his prey.

The little deer let out a startled bleat as the Dragon tackled her, claws ripping into her flesh as the larger beast bore her to the ground. The second Dragon, the red-eyed female, caught up with the pair, biting at the squirming prey fiercely. The two hatchlings savaged the deer, ripping and tearing at her. Then, with a swift bite to the throat, the male ended her struggles, snapping her neck with a twist of his head. The doe went still, and the Dragons began to feed.

Above, the branches rustled as Rodrick, lurching from branch to branch uncertainly, caught up with them. He glanced down at the feeding beasts with a satisfied smirk, watching as they devoured the carcass quickly. He looked up as a movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention, spotting Ylia and Fauve approaching. The duo nodded to the Witcher, looking down at the feast beneath them. Fauve was the first to break the silence.

"Their appetite remains strong. That is a good sign." She observed.

"They have very good hunting instincts." Rodrick added. "Even at such a young age, they are natural predators."

"Something that will become all the more potent, once their intelligence begins to grow with age." The Dryad commented.

Underneath the trio, the two hatchlings finished devouring their meal, turning their heads upwards to the Witchers and the Dryad. They watched their three guardians with sharp, bright eyes. For a moment, Ylia was reminded of the open, innocent stare of a dog. Whereas in the first few days, they would only look at the Witcheress and her allies with hunger and aggression, they now seemed to watch the trio with recognition, even a little anticipation.

"They seem to be getting accustomed to us." She observed.

"They've begun to associate us with food." Rodrick commented. "Dragons are born smart, and then only grow more so over time. They know that we're protecting them, and that we lead them to more food. First, the carcasses we'd leave in their path, and now the live prey."

"I admit, using Axii to have the prey wander into their path was a good idea." Ylia said. "They follow the prey far faster than we could lead them with the Sign. We've made better time these past three days, than the whole week before that."

"We should still be cautious." Fauve warned. "If they become too accustomed to your kind, they risk exposing themselves to the wrong people, making themselves prey. Or, worse, they become dependent upon your presence to survive."

"They will have to learn to survive without us." Rodrick answered. "Having them hunt live prey, even that which is directed towards them, allows them to hone vital survival skills. They will not have an easy life, once we lead them out of the forest, but they will have a better chance than most."

"Once they are able to fly, they will likely seek out one of their own kind." Fauve concluded. "Then they will be taught the truth of what they are, who they will become."

"I hope that they find a Dragon who teaches them to be good, and kind." Ylia said.

"Goodness and kindness are not valuable traits to a Dragon." Fauve quickly dismissed the notion. "They will learn to breathe fire, and hoard gold, and to fly. That is all that a Dragon needs."

Ylia opened her mouth to say something, but hesitated, clearly ill at-ease with the idea. Finally, she closed her mouth again, turning to look down at the hatchlings again. The Dragons, in response, grumbled contentedly, sniffing at the ground where the doe's blood still glistened wetly. The female, eyes crimson, hide black as night, let out a low trill, an almost happy sound.

~o~0~o~

Ylia opened her eyes, some strange sound having roused her from her slumber. She looked about, noting the growing shade of pink in the sky, the signal of an approaching dawn. The forest was still peaceful, the first few birds beginning to chirp in the distance, greeting the new-born day. Far below, the two hatchlings nestled together, resting peacefully.

She heard it again. A rustle, faint but apparent to a Witcher's keen ears. Ylia raised her head, looking about from where she lay, curled up in the crook of a tree.

Fauve was already risen, strapping her knife to her thigh. She already had her bow slung across her back, quiver strapped in place at her hip. With a jolt, Ylia realised that the Dryad was making ready to leave. The Witcheress rose to her feet, drawing the Dryad's gaze.

"Fauve?" She asked, a little hazily. "What's going on?"

The Dryad paused in her preparations, looking to her Witcher companion. An unfamiliar light glinted in her eyes, slightly regretful.

"We are close to the borders of the forest." She explained. "Less than a day's journey away. Beyond that, the lands of the Dh'oinne, where I cannot go. It has been three weeks since we killed the Werryn. I must return to my queen, and report what we have achieved."

"You're leaving?" Rodrick, rubbing sleep from his eyes, sat up straight. He stifled a yawn.

"I must." Fauve answered, turning to face him. "It is my duty. I am certain that a Vatt'ghern can understand that."

"I do." Rodrick nodded solemnly. "Will we meet again?"

"It is unlikely." Fauve's voice was tinged with a little sadness. "You will not be permitted within the borders of the Brokilon again. You broke one of our sacred laws and brought flame into the forest. If you return, my people will execute you."

"I understand." Rodrick sighed, standing. "Then I guess this is goodbye."

The Witcher extended a hand, a reflexive act. Fauve looked at the proffered hand for a moment, clearly uncertain what it meant, before looking back into the Witcher's eyes. A long, awkward silence passed between them, before Rodrick lowered the hand. The Dryad nodded to him.

"Farewell, Rodrick of the Vatt'ghern. You are a skilled hunter, no matter the mistakes you have made. I believe that the Dh'oinne would say that it was an honour to hunt at your side, and protect a part of my home together. I wish you well, out on your Witcher's Path."

"And I you, Fauve." Rodrick nodded deeply, a twinge of regret in his heart.

The pair exchanged one final glance, then Fauve turned to face Ylia. The Witcheress felt more than a little sadness as she met the Dryad's gaze. Fauve allowed herself a smile, the first real one that Ylia had seen grace her features since they had first met.

"And so, too, must we part, Ylia of the Vatt'ghern. You have also proved to be an exceptional huntress, one to rival any of my sisters."

"Is there no way that you could stick with us for a little more time?" Ylia asked, loathe to be parted with her newest comrade.

"No, I cannot. I am sorry." The Dryad answered genuinely. She paused, a thoughtful light flaring in her eyes. Then, with a swift motion, she pulled the bow from her back, proffering it to the Witcheress. "Here, take this. To replace your lost weapon, and as a token of your time here in the Brokilon."

"Your bow?" Ylia asked, surprised. "I cannot accept such a generous gift!"

"It is mine to give away as I see fit." Fauve smiled again. "A skilled huntress needs a weapon befitting her talents. You will find no bow among those made by Dh'oinne or Elf that can match a Dryad bow from the Brokilon." She ran her fingers along the smooth, elegantly formed wood. "We do not carve the limbs of our bows. They are grown, sculpted as living things, harvested while still green and pliable. We craft the bowstrings using strands of our own hair."

Slowly, hesitantly, Ylia took the offered weapon. She marvelled at the simple elegance of the design, the practical nature of its style, and the comfortable way it fit in her hands. She tested it, pulling the string back, feeling it flex and move in response to her will. it almost felt like a living thing, following her orders silently. She'd never handled a weapon like this one before.

"I- thank you." She managed after an awe-struck moment. "It is most generous."

"Keep it with you, and if perhaps one day you should return here, to the Brokilon, then you need only show that to one of my sisters. They will recognise you as a friend to my people, and allow you safe passage." Fauve removed the quiver from her hip, also granting that to the Witcheress. "I hope we will meet again, if you choose to return. I would like to hear more of your songs, someday."

"I hope so, too." Ylia replied, meaning every word.

Fauve stepped closer, raising a hand. With a gentle touch, she placed her thumb on the Witcheress' forehead, her palm cradling Ylia's temple.

"Be safe, Ylia. May your Path treat you with kindness."

This done, the Dryad turned away and, without a further word, began leaping from branch to branch. The two Witchers watched her go, until the Dryad finally vanished into the forest.

~o~0~o~

Two days had passed since the Dryad had parted ways with the two Witchers, and less than one day since the hunters, their two Dragon hatchlings in tow, had emerged from the edge of the Brokilon, the dense, emerald-green forest suddenly giving way to open grasslands. It was at this point that the Witchers had been forced to change their methods of leading the two Draconids. The hatchlings, now far more accustomed to the Witchers, had almost completely changed their demeanour towards them. Now, instead of aggression, they exhibited only curiosity about Ylia and Rodrick, often trying to get a closer look at their unexpected guardians. They even seemed to respond to their voices, listening to their words with remarkable attention and seeming intelligence. Thus, by the time the two Witchers had led their reptilian charges out of the forest and into the open, they were able to walk freely ahead of the hatchlings, leading them easily.

Ahead, a few low hills rose up above the landscape. Ylia confidently led the way towards these hills, knowing that the valley she had in mind lay somewhere in their arms. By the time the sun had traversed the sky, turning the sky orange as it dropped towards the horizon once more, the two Witchers found themselves slowly ascending the first of these hills, quickly clambering up the steep slope. Finally, just as the sun touched the rim of the sky, the small procession reached the crest of this first hill, and paused.

Beyond the hill, a large valley waited. It was broad, with gentle slopes on almost all sides, save for the far boundary, where a larger hill, almost mountain-like, sat looming over the valley, casting a dark shadow. Some spring found its outlet on that taller hill, a stream of water tumbling down across steep slopes and sheer cliffs, until they reached the valley floor and, combining with a handful of other narrow streams, formed a wider river that wound its way down the length of the valley. Here and there, small copses of trees clung to the banks of the river, while most of the valley was given over to gently rolling grassland. Dotted about on the hillsides, wild sheep roamed freely, without threat of Human interference. Surveying the valley, Rodrick let out an approving whistle.

"Nice." He murmured. "If it weren't so far from anywhere else, this would be a great place to set up home."

"I'm sure there are a few people who would like the isolation." Ylia countered. "But you're right, its too remote for most. That should make it an ideal refuge for the Dragons while they grow."

"Plenty game to hunt, water to drink, cliffs to practice flying off." Rodrick nodded. "I can't think of a better place to leave them. Speaking of which..." The Witcher turned back, to where the two young hatchlings watched them with curious eyes. "How do we convince them to stay here?"

"I was thinking about that." Ylia moved to stand in front of the female, with her scarlet eyes. "After what Fauve said, about what they will learn from another of their kind. I think its up to us to help them to become the best individuals that they can be. We have a chance here, to teach them something about kindness, and goodness."

The Witcheress moved closer to the female hatchling, who flinched back a step, wary of this sudden closeness. Her ruby-red eyes narrowed, watching Ylia carefully. Slowly, so as not to startle the young Dragon, Ylia dropped to her knees in front of the creature. Curious, the female inched forward, sniffing at her inquisitively. Her snout moved close to Ylia, the creature's breath washing across the Witcheress' face in warm waves. Cautiously, Ylia lifted a hand, placing it on the scaly snout. The Dragon flinched, but then relaxed into the touch, still watching the Witcheress with wary eyes.

Ylia thrilled at the feel of living scales under her fingertips, the rough, quite warm texture unlike anything else she'd ever known. The Witcheress locked her gaze with the Dragon, pausing for a long, silent moment. In that instant, she felt a connection with the creature, something that went far beyond any physical sensation. She could feel the magical energies of the Dragon pulsing around her, and a great mind locked behind the scarlet eyes. Powerful intelligence watched her.

Taking a deep breath, Ylia reached out with her own mind towards that intelligence, gently brushing at it. The mind was still young, tender, sensitive to any outward force. She had to be careful not to damage it. With slow, precise fingers, Ylia traced a rune on the Dragon's skull, the symbol of Axii. She allowed a gentle push of magical energy to flow into the symbol, opening the way to the Dragon's mind. Once she had made the connection, Ylia kept her eyes locked with the hatchling's while she spoke in a low, deliberate, gentle voice.

"You are Aenye, that is your name. You will live among these hills until you are grown and strong enough to survive the wilds alone. You will stay hidden from Humans and Dwarves, and care for your brother, as he will care for you. Be kind to those who need it."

The Dragon's eyes glossed over for just a moment, turning cloudy as the Witcheress' words sank in. Then, in a flash, the moment passed, the her usual sharp glare returned. The Dragon, now called Aenye, backed away a step, regarding her Witcher guardian with a keen gaze. Slowly, Ylia rose to her feet, stepping away while keeping her stare locked with the Dragon's.

Rodrick watched the process from a few steps away, brow furrowed as he watched his friend. His hand cupped his chin as he watched, then turned to face the other hatchling, the green-eyed male. Taking in a deep breath, he copied Ylia's actions, dropping into a crouch in front of the Dragon and casting the sign on the creature's forehead.

"Your name is Zuriel. You will keep your sister safe, above all else. Cause no unneeded harm to others, but always take care of those who become your kin."

This done, he stepped back, meeting the newly christened Zuriel's gaze.

The two Dragons hesitated, looking to one another with a hesitant glance. Then, after apparently coming to some conclusion, the pair moved, heading past the two Witchers and into the valley. They started to run, bounding down the hillside into the valley. Ylia and Rodrick turned to watch them, a satisfied but hesitant feeling in their bellies.

"You think they'll be okay?" Ylia asked.

"We've given them the best chance that we could." Rodrick shrugged. "I'll come back, from time to time, to check how they're doing. With any luck, they'll thrive here."

"I hope so." Ylia replied. "I'll come visit, too, whenever I am passing."

In the valley, the two Dragons raced about with a youthful excitement. Zuriel made for the river, leaping into the water with his wings outstretched. Aenye, meanwhile, found a slightly elevated outcropping of rock, clambering up it with eager claws. Once at the top, she spread her wings and jumped, gliding clumsily to the ground.

Rodrick turned away, glancing to the darkening skies. He reached out, putting a reassuring hand on Ylia's shoulder.

"Come on, Spark." He muttered. "Let's go home."

Rodrick turned away, beginning the journey back out of the valley. He'd barely taken a few steps, however, before a hand lightly slapped the back of his head. He spun to see Ylia looking at him with a roguish smirk on her lips. She winked, before setting off at a run.

"Last one there is a dead Nekker!" She taunted back over her shoulder.

Rodrick paused for a moment, before a smile crossed his own features. Fond memories of the childish game they had once played as young ones welled in his mind. With a chuckle, he began to lope after her, his longer gait against her faster pace. The laughter of the two Witchers rose into the darkening sky while, behind them, the excited growls and roars of the two young Dragons echoed off the hills.


End file.
